Through the Door
by C. Midori
Summary: When tragedy blurs the fast-disappearing line between friendship and what lies beyond, Abby must decide how far she is willing to push that line--and Carter, how far to let her. Prequel to Things Behind the Sun. AU set after Season 8. COMPLETE.
1. The Burned House

TITLE: Through the Door (1/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: A long time reader of fanfiction but a relative newbie to the ER-verse, this is my first foray into both writing fanfic and the ER fandom. *Worries* So forgive me if this first author's note is a bit on the lengthy side! I became engrossed with ER at the beginning of Season 7--just in time to fall hook, line, and sinker for the Carter/Abby dynamic. I think TPTB did a wonderful job of crafting a complex, layered, and fascinating relationship. (Of course, the natural chemistry between NW and MT didn't hurt.) So imagine my disappointment with Season 8, in all its inconsistent and careless glory. Bah. Consequently, I think I'm writing in response to that. A mild warning: this is not a Carby fluff-fest. I'm sort of letting this story grow organically, so I'm not sure if there will be a Happily Ever After (in the romantic sense) for Carter and Abby. And after writing the first couple of chapters, I'm not so convinced that they *should* end up together, either. To put it simply, they've both been carting around a U-Haul of emotional baggage, and dealing won't be easy. Finally, as mentioned, this is my first fanfic, so any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. Hit me, baby, one more time!

SUMMARY: Carter, Abby, and the dance they do. In the prologue, we start back in time a bit. Pain, conversation, and a lot of bodily fluids.__

PROLOGUE 

The Burned House

_In the burned house I am eating breakfast.  
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,  
yet here I am._

_Margaret Atwood, "Morning in the Burned House"_

*          *          *

SHE STUMBLED BACKWARDS when his anger struck her. Like a pane violently ripped out of the blackest midnight, the door slammed up against her face, and she felt herself cry out at the impact. The faint palpitation behind her eyes began to wail with increasing intensity—louder, and louder, and louder yet again—then with one violent rush her vision fractured, and she felt a small explosion of light, white and hot and burning—

And then there was darkness, nothing but darkness. A thousand nights congealed in a pool of black in which she drowned.

A few minutes, a few hours—how much time had passed, she couldn't tell. The kettle was ready. Its high-pitched scream lanced through the murky depths of her mind, catching on a thin thread of consciousness that ran like a wire of pain through an unknown land. Then something hit her nostrils with a dizzying force—metallic, pungent, like the salt sea on a cloud-heavy day. 

Blood. Of course, her blood.

She blinked, awareness returning to her in a dizzying rush, and stumbled to her feet. 

*          *          *

John Carter walked through the halls of the ER, happiness lighting his frank, boyish face. He had spent much of the day in pediatrics. His mother had brought in a boy from the orphanage where she volunteered, the young child's body stricken with leukemia like Carter's brother so many years ago. They had done as much as they could for the boy, but they had managed to do so much more for themselves—the feeling of his mother's arms still wrapped around his body, this was the closest to a reconciliation he had ever hoped to achieve with her. 

Whistling, he greeted several of the nurses with a bright smile, checking the board and then the charts. He flipped through several of them and then froze when his eyes clapped upon one name in particular. 

_Lockhart, Abigail._

Incredulous, his eyes widened as he stared at the folder in his hands, fingers growing numb. Sluggishly, mechanically, his body lurched through the ER until it stopped at the threshold to her room. And as he opened the door, the world seemed to hold its breath—then exhale in one fell swoop, nearly knocking him to the ground. 

"Abby," he whispered, her small frame lying still on the bed. She was asleep. Her face was a bruised, bloody mess, the discoloration only partially hidden by the white bandages that glared across her nose. Even in repose, she looked tense, defensive, her hair matted with dried blood and fanned out behind her on her pillow, her body rigid and unyielding. 

He crept to her bedside. Numbly, he lifted a hand to tuck an errand tendril away from her face. _This isn't real, he thought, vague, colorless thoughts swelling his head like helium, __this isn't happening. _

"She's going to be fine, Carter." 

Carter spun around. "Susan," he blurted, his lips parched. "What happened?"

"Her neighbor," she replied, looking extremely sorry. "He beat her."

He swallowed, fury strangling his throat. "He beat her," he repeated faintly. "Is she okay? What's her condition?"

"For the most part, yes. A nasal fracture, and her cuts will heal. They're closing up already."

"Someone should stay with her tonight." Absently, he smoothed his hand along her forehead, thumb sweeping along her crown, then pulled back guiltily.

Susan looked at him strangely. "Don't worry. She's staying with me. I'll make sure she's okay." 

Avoiding her gaze, he reached for her chart and flipped through it. He froze. "A rape kit," he croaked, turning his eyes to Susan in alarm. "You ordered a rape kit for her?"

"We had to," Susan explained. Her voice was quiet. "There was some bruising on the inner thighs."

Carter tried to find his voice. When he spoke, he felt as if his voice was coming from someplace far away. "And, uh, did you find anything?"

Susan shook her head slowly. 

"That's good, good." Nauseated, he felt himself begin to gag, the taste of bile rising in his throat. He backed away from her bed. "I have to go." His voice grew more distant. "Don't tell her I was here." 

"Carter? Carter! Are you okay?" 

Ignoring her, he stumbled out of the room blindly. Down, then, through the corridor to the men's bathroom, through the door. Knees ground against the cold tiled ground, hands gripped the sides of the toilet seat until his knuckles turned deathly white, and he threw up. 

*          *          *

CREDITS: The title of this story is taken from Darren "Badly Drawn Boy" Gough's song "Epitaph": "Just promise that you'll try / To give me all you can / I'll never ask for more / There's new life through the door." It's off his superlative album "The Hour of the Bewilderbeast." The title of the prologue is from Margaret Atwood's poem "The Burned House," which is about our inability to ever fully return to a point in life once it passes. I've also taken liberties with the plot of "A Simple Twist of Fate," the episode of ER in which Abby's neighbor beats her.


	2. River Going Through

TITLE: Through the Door (2/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Susan and Abby were unexpectedly fun to write—so fun, in fact, that I briefly considered making this a SL/AL slash fic until Carter through a tantrum. *pats Pouty!Carter* Also, please review!

SUMMARY: See Abby smoke. See Abby drink. See Abby make non-concessions about Carter but throw a bone to the Sunshine and Shadow folks.

CHAPTER ONE 

River Going Through

_Neon shines through smoky eyes tonight  
It's 2 AM, I'm drunk again  
It's heavy on my mind  
It's heavy on my mind  
I could never love again  
So much as I love you  
Where you end where I begin  
Is like a river going through_

*          *          *

_Several months later._

Abby paced the perimeter of the ambulance bay outside County, wrapping her arms tightly around her torso and freeing her hands only to coax a snug cigarette from its pack, and nurture a clumsy lighter to flame. Raising the cigarette to her lips, she inhaled deeply, spitting the smoke out in time to the throbbing in her head. The cigarette did nothing to quell the headache; what she really needed was a drink. She glanced at her watch: two more hours.

She wasn't cold, but she shivered.

A shriveled wisp of smoke whispered into her eyes, clouding her vision in lavender. The world suddenly scattered, fracturing like light through a prism, and her knees gave way, her body collapsing with a dull thud.

"Abby!" 

Knees ground against the gravel, hand planted against a wall for balance, Abby blinked in confusion, her heart thudding painfully against her ribcage and her head swarming feverishly.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She waved off Carter's extended arm, and tried to ignore the concern etched in every line of his handsome face. 

"Let me help you." Amidst her protests, he aided her small frame to a place on the bench, kneeling before her while his hands warmly bookended her upper arms. "You've got a nasty gash there," he noted quietly, a finger tentatively grazing her temple. 

"It's okay," she muttered, flinching slightly at the contact. "It's just a cut. No big deal."

"What happened? How'd you fall?"

"The wall just jumped out in front of me, Officer," she deadpanned. "Either that, or I didn't eat breakfast, and got lightheaded."

Carter smiled, then let go of her arms. "Okay, then," he said, taking a seat besides her. "You should eat. I'm off in fifteen minutes; want to go to Doc Magoo's?"

"I'm still on for another couple of hours." Abby shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"Coffee and pie's on me." He said hopefully, repeating their oft-reiterated line.

"Thanks," she said tightly, reaching absently to rub her eye, "But I don't—" Her hand swiping the gash, Abby cursed quietly to herself as the metallic scent of blood filled her lungs and trickled down the side of her face. "Son of a bitch," she muttered, reaching for her sleeve.

"Don't," Carter admonished, "You'll irritate it." Turning so that he was facing her, his hand swept along the cut carefully, cleanly, fingers whispering against her skin like the wind rippling the surface of a pond. "There," he breathed, after a moment. "All done. You should have that looked at when you go inside." 

"Thanks." A spring of panic suddenly, inexplicably, bubbled up inside of her. "I gotta go." Rising quickly from the bench, she nodded to him and walked inside, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. 

She could still feel his eyes on her long after she had turned around. 

*          *          *

Snow fell wetly, fell thickly, blanketing the small world in a temporary glaze. Abby shook the small globe in front of her, her eyes darting to follow the trajectory of the artificial flakes. 

"Oh, God, it's hot." Susan Lewis slumped into a chair next to her friend, an unopened can of soda in her hands. "Why did I buy these shoes?" she asked plaintively, kicking them off under the table. 

"Because they were cute." Abby smiled half-heartedly. 

Susan gave her friend a curious look. "So what's up?" she inquired, popping the soda open and taking a long swig. 

"Nothing." Abby shrugged, shaking the globe again.

"The weather looks so nice in there." Susan nodded in the direction of the little trinket, smiling at the thought of a respite from the oppressive heat. "Hottest day of the year so far, and the air conditioner breaks right on schedule. Tell me again why I work at County, and not in private practice," she grinned.

"Right, because air conditioners never break in private practice," Abby laughed, her eyes on the miniature world before her.

"Exactly." Susan paused. She hesitated before continuing. "I heard you collapsed earlier today," she said off-handedly. "In the ambulance bay. Are you okay?"

"Collapsed," Abby scoffed. "You make it sound so dramatic. Tripped is more like it." She paused. "Let me guess: Carter told you?"

Susan examined her hands. "Not really. I mean, he might've mentioned something about you…and falling…and…God, I'm not doing a great job covering up for him," she finished with a laugh.

"No, you're not," Abby agreed. 

Susan looked at her closely. "Hey," she said gently. "I'm off in an hour. You look beat. Wanna go get a drink or something?"

Abby put down the globe, and hesitated. She looked at her friend. "I'd say you've got yourself a date."

*          *          *

"Classy," Abby remarked, taking in her surroundings for the first time that evening. As always, her short stature allowed her to swing her legs while perched atop a bar stool. Idly, she traced the circle of water her glass had left on the glossy wood finish, and she inhaled the rich cigar smoke that permeated the dim room. Lighted with old kerosene lamps, the room gave off a warm, brassy glow—almost as warm as the bronzed liquid in her glass, as the heat that was beginning to diffuse throughout her body.

"Yeah, well, it isn't the Lava Lounge," Susan replied, taking a sip of her cocktail. "So we've been downing drinks for the last hour, but you haven't said a thing. What's up with you?"

"Not much," Abby shrugged. "I work. I go home. I have dates with my couch. Sometimes the pint of Rocky Road and I make out." She stirred her drink, then lifted her glass to empty it of its contents. 

"We should go out more often." Susan suggested, calling the bartender over to refill their drinks.

"We should."

"We always say that."

"We do."

"But we never do."

"I know." 

At the last remark, both ladies laughed loudly, attracting the attention of a few patrons and the bartender, who gave them an indulgent smile. Tossing her heavy curls, the bartender turned back to her task of wiping glasses down.

"She's hot," Susan noted with a nod in her direction, her eyes sparkling. 

Giving her a surprised glance, Abby opened her mouth to speak, and instead giggled.

"I say that from the perspective of a completely heterosexual woman," Susan rolled her eyes. "What, like women can't check out other women?"

"Completely allowed," Abby grinned. "But I beg to differ."

"What, you don't think she's hot?"

"Maybe in a guys-want-to-bed-her, women-want-to-bat-for-the-other-team kind of way." Abby leaned back in her stool, nearly toppling over. "Whoa!" she laughed. "But not, like, hot," she managed to sputter in the middle of her giggles. 

"Right, because she's not Carter."

"Whoa, whoa, no, no, no, no." Abby leaned forward, propping her chin up with one hand. "Carter does not figure into this conversation."

Susan let out a surprised laugh. "You guys are still doing this?"

"Doing _what?"_

"This! This, oh, we don't really like each other, we're just friends, but we're going to flirt scandalously in the workplace as we refuse to acknowledge our feelings." Susan burst out laughing.

"We do _not flirt!" Avoiding eye contact, she ordered another drink. "And I am __not attracted to him. Maybe before," she conceded, "But not now." Nodding a thank you to the waitress, she threw her head back and downed its contents. _

Susan gave her friend an appraising look, half-smiling and half-knowing. "Right," she said, sarcasm lacing her voice. "You guys don't flirt. And Carter and I have loads of sexual chemistry."

"I think you still like him." Abby smirked. "And you're trying to pin it on me."

"And I think you're drunk," Susan giggled.

"Admit it."

"What, that you're drunk?"

"No, that you still like him." 

"I do not!"

"You do too!"

"Oh god, we sound like a couple of first graders. And you're one to talk!" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Abby tried to ignore the dull headache that was beginning to pound mercilessly at the back of her head; giving up, she ordered another round of shots. 

"It means that you're attracted to him." Susan sipped her cocktail. "I mean, yeah, I'm attracted to him too, but in that, oh you're a cutie, let's go out, wait we already did, crap, we have no chemistry, let's not go out again and instead spend our days in the ER engaged in friendly and sometimes flirtatious banter."

"And me?" Abby fidgeted with her napkin, her eyes downcast. 

Susan leaned forward, propping her face up on her elbows and fixing Abby a look. "Oh, God. You're attracted to him in that, he's my best friend, sometimes he's obnoxious, but I think I'm in love with him, he wants to risk it all but I'm too scared to, kind of way."

Abby snorted, trying to stifle her giggles. "Now _that's a load of bull."_

"He's in love with you, you know that," Susan said suddenly. She punctuated her words with her drink umbrella, stabbing recklessly at the air. "He has been, for some time. For a long time, I'd guess."

Abby grew quiet, and looked down at her hands. When she looked up again, her cheeks were tinged with color and her eyes smiled.

The corner of Susan's mouth turned upwards. "Don't tell me he hasn't ever said anything about it."

Abby paused. "Yeah, sure" she said finally, after a long while. She threw a shot back. The liquor burned in her mouth, scorching the back of her throat, but it was nothing in comparison to the delirious buoyancy in her toes. 

"So tell me, why didn't you two ever get together again?"

Considering her friend for a moment, Abby cocked her head and stared down at the glass in her hands. She could, just barely, see her muddled reflection on the drink's surface, glaring back at her. "I told you," she said finally, her voice wavering like its surface in her trembling hands. "Timing."

"You sure about that?" Susan regarded her friend closely. 

"What? Yes." Abby snorted, swirling the colorless liquid in its glass, noting the way the light skating along its rim. "Timing. Bad timing. I am a victim of bad timing, my life is a victim of bad timing," she finished dramatically. She paused. "I think."

Susan stared at her friend. Gesturing for the bartender, she pulled out her wallet. "It's on me," she said, amidst Abby's protests. "And I think we need a taxi."

They rode home in silence, enjoying each other's company. As the cab pulled away from Abby's apartment, Susan never noticed that she never made it to her door.

*          *          *  
CREDITS: The chapter of the title is taken from the lyrics of "Grace is Gone" by the Dave Matthews Band. Also, a couple of lines of dialogue were snipped from the episode "The Letter" in order to bolster my feeble insistence that I do pay attention to continuity issues. ^_^ 


	3. Night Swimming

TITLE: Through the Door (3/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This chapter is dedicated to everyone who reviewed the Prologue and Chapter 1, making my virgin fanfic experience a wonderful one. ^_^ Colossal thanks and cotton candy to: Emma, Starfish (Kelsey), Hanna, Laura, Jane McCartney, Kate, and phoenix. It means a lot to me that each of you took the time to review, and I am tremendously humbled and flattered by your responses. Thank you, muchly! Thanks also to Neoxer and angelpixiedust for hosting. Visit The Lounge (er.neoxer.com) and Carter n' Abby (www.angelpixiedust.com)—they're both wonderful resources and well worth the visit. A cautionary note: this is where the R rating begins to kick in as I've sprinkled the chapter with Some Naughty Language. And, of course, reviews are always, always appreciated! You can review either on fanfiction.net under my pseudonym (C. Midori) or drop me an email at socksless@hotmail.com. 

SUMMARY: Abby and Carter partake of the internal monologue and a good sulk. Also, some Carby fuzzies for those of you so inclined ^_-, and my first fanfic cliffhanger, ever! Whee!__

CHAPTER TWO

Night Swimming

_Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.   
I'm not sure all these people understand.   
It's not like years ago,   
The fear of getting caught, of recklessness and water.   
They cannot see me naked.   
These things, they go away, replaced by everyday._

_REM, "Nightswimming"_

*          *          *

HEAD SPINNING, ABBY DAWDLED ALONG THE STREETS NEAR HER APARTMENT, consciousness slipping in and out of her fingers like fine grains of sand. The alcohol had hit her with a dizzying force, just like she knew it would, distancing her from her life while simultaneously giving it remarkable clarity. Crazy mom, aborted child, ex-husband, alcohol problem, med school drop out—Abby ticked off her sources of pain and self-pity and anger on her slim fingers, and laughed.****

Rummaging through her pockets, a cigarette emerged and haphazardly brought to flame. Cloudy whirls of smoke spiraled in front of her as she took drag after long drag, finally flopping down onto the curbside. Sucking at the stub of a cigarette at her lips, stomach still very warm, the alcohol spread like quicksilver through her veins; meanwhile, the night was ridiculously humid and clung to her skin like dew on slicked blades of grass. 

It was a beautiful night; a night that should not be wasted in her apartment. Alone. Again. 

Snippets of her conversation with Susan drifted through her head. _In love with Carter, Abby snorted. _Right._ Spent, the cigarette fell to the street, and she ground it out with a merciless heel. Blearily, then, eyes stared at wavering lines and acidic colors, and head ignored a sudden, swift kick of her heart as mouth puckered in thoughtful frown. _

_He's in love with you. _

Impossible. Utterly, irrevocably impossible. He had made it clear that night on the bridge, when he rejected her point blank, he had made it even more abundantly clear afterwards, when he began dating Susan but never saw fit to mention it, and he had driven his point home with his friendly, but distanced, inquiry into her well-being after her beating. Never mind the long, loaded gazes, the briefest brushes of skin, the earnest, guardedly optimistic words; never her mind the thinly disguised jealousy of Luka; never mind that night outside the Lava Lounge, his glances suffused with heat, his hands warmly enclosing over hers, his looks alternately troubled and longing. 

She shook her head ruefully, mouth set in a determined line, and attempted valiantly to suppress the queer, lancing ache whose reach began to spread slow and cruel through her ribcage like spilt blood blossoming against the snow. A queer, lancing ache; for those gazes, for those words, for that heat; for everything that meant nothing, certainly nothing, at all. 

"Fuck," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut. Need. A foreign tongue, in an unknown land, with all the trappings and discomfort of a narrow space. And she wasn't going to confine herself to that space again, to find herself caged by bars of her own making. 

_It's a bad idea, her mind slurred, __it's a bad, bad idea, Abby. ****_

She stood on the empty sidewalk and watched as the rain began to fall. 

*          *          *

Carter shut his eyes and tried to lull himself to sleep, but the image of her body crumpling to the ground earlier that day smarted against the inside of his eyelids like a blood-red sunset long after it had sunk out of sight. In his head he saw the disbelief and fear in her round eyes, instead of her long, sloe-eyed glances; he read between the unhappy lines scarring her face. It had taken all his willpower to stop himself from gathering her close to him and smoothing those lines away.

He almost burst out laughing at the thought of giving in to those impulses. 

Of course, they flirted. Often, and scandalously. But her words were cut on a sharp blade. Whetted on an element of finality. They warned him not to push his limits. 

They were limits that appeared after that night by the river. A night in which he tired of waiting, and could not swallow his demand for something more than words—for grand, sweeping gestures. He had wanted more than the helpless shrug and the hopeful, tentative words that glimmered like dim lights strung on a line; he wanted what he knew, or thought, she could give.

_I've been waiting for something to happen…with us._

And memory demanded entrance, rushing in like shafts of sunlight in the early morning.

_…I'd rather settle for someone who isn't hung up over someone else._

_You don't have to settle for anything, Carter._

Exhaling, he balled his hands into a fist, the scene ending as curtains drew shut around the memory. He stared at the ceiling painted in long blue shadows, and from outside his open window, cricket song beckoned him firmly, mercifully to sleep. 

Sighing, he gave one last, drowsy look at the clock. The bright red numbers glared at him. 12:28 am. Thank god he didn't have a shift tomorrow morning, he thought, settling his head back into his pillow to sleep. 

He had almost drifted off when the doorbell rang.

*          *          *

"Who is it?"

"It's me." 

Instantly, Carter knew who it was. He knew it by the shape of her voice saying his name, the sweet and subtle nuances of her speech, the slight lilt indicating that she was…drunk. Again. He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to the door before swiftly unlocking the deadbolts and pulling at the doorknob. 

"Abby," Carter said, swinging the door open. "I was just thinking about you."

"And here I am," Abby cocked her head, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Random chaos theory in action. Can I come in?"

He hesitated.

"Or will Gamma not approve?"

"She's not here," he replied, unsure as to how to proceed. Torn between the impulse to chastise her and the impulse to gather her close to him, he settled for stalling. "She's out. Visiting some friends."

"Then she won't mind if I come in," Abby laughed, hair falling in her face like rain. "Or you could come out here. It's nice out. Warm. Balmy. Showers, on again and off again. 

"Kind of like us," he smiled, wearily.

_Is there an "us"?_

She looked away, nonchalant, and slid her hands into her pockets. "It's nice out," she repeated. 

Carter stared at her, his t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. "I can't." He fought the urge to be overwhelmed by her small, whirlwind figure.

Abby crossed her arms, looking mildly petulant. "Why the hell not?"

_Like I said, it's complicated._

"I just don't feel up to it," he replied truthfully.

"Oh, come _on_," she rolled her eyes, interpreting his silence for surrender. She grabbed his hand, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Come _on, Carter," she repeated._

Carter felt his resolve give way when she touched him, their hands entangled so tightly that he couldn't tell where he ended and she began. Light-headed, he let her drag him to the backyard where they plunked down on a dewy spot on the lawn. "We shouldn't be doing this," he protested half-heartedly, only marginally aware of what he was saying. 

"What are we doing?" Abby said, in the hushed, sensual cadences of a dream-walker. Her words were slurred slightly as she collapsed against him, still holding on to his hand. She continued, "Oh wait, let me. We're resting because I still have to recover from hopping your fence."

"You hopped my fence?" he snickered, letting her head fall on his shoulder and forcing himself to take deep breaths. "You could've just rang the doorbell, you know."

"Too predictable." 

He felt her breath warm on his neck, the smell of alcohol in her hair. Turning his gaze upward, he watched the stars twinkle in synch with the dull pounding in his head. Midnight stretched across the expanse of sky, a dark canvas upon which stars blossomed and a moon made no entrance. It impressed upon him a feeling of weightlessness, and he felt his body relax. 

"You're drunk," he stated, matter-of-fact.

"Talk about predictable. Thank you, Captain Obvious," she snorted, lifting her head. He instantly missed her warmth. Hands slipped out of his to reach for a cigarette. "You don't mind, do you?" she asked archly, a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

"No, go ahead."

Abby gave him a small mock salute, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag. "You're awfully quiet tonight. Are you okay?"

Carter shrugged, his eyes following the curve of her shoulder, where it disappeared into the shadows lighting her back. He tossed several answers back and forth in his mind, before settling on a very safe "I'm fine."

"Fine!" Abby chuckled. She flicked her cigarette, sprinkling ashes that were soon swallowed up by the shadows. "You've barely said three words to me the whole time." 

He cleared his throat. "I didn't know we were counting."

"Well now you do. The more you know…"

"Ignorance is bliss, you know."

"Yeah, but knowledge is fundamental," Abby cheerfully retorted.

"I think that's reading, Abby." Carter smiled at her, and their knees brushed together.

"Knowledge is reading?"

"No, reading is fundamental." 

"So what does that make knowledge?" Abby sucked on her cigarette, ribbons of smoke snaking around her wrist. 

Abruptly, Carter changed the subject. "Why are you here?"

"Locked out of my apartment," she answered, her tone light.

"Locked out?" he echoed.

"And I thought, I've already imposed on Luka …"

"Luka?"

"What are you, my echo?"

"Wanna play shadow?" he grinned. 

"I just might have to kill you," Abby laughed. 

Carter shrugged, his shoulder brushing against hers. "So," he began carefully. "Locked out."

"That's my story, and I'm sticking to it," she declared.

"And you came to me?"

"Well, I wanted to see you."

"Even though—what did you say?" Startled, Carter stared at her intently. A slight breeze picked up, tickling the small hairs on the back of his neck, goose-pimpling his skin. "You did?"

Abby paused, and turned toward him, eyes half-lidded and drowsy, the soft corners of her mouth curving upwards in a delicious smile. Her cigarette lay forgotten on the grass, put out by the dew. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."

"Oh."

"Is that a pleased 'oh' or a get-the-hell-off-my-property 'oh'?"

"It's, ah, it's a surprised 'oh'," he managed to say, blinking rapidly. He stared down at the grass, the heat rising in his cheeks.

Curious, Abby looked at him. In one purposive, fluid motion, she touched his face lightly, and Carter let her. The lines of her profile blurring, the colors of her pretty face churning, changing as the color of the ocean changes to reflect the sky, she was changing as the foggy pieces of his memory fell into place. To another time, another moment like this, in which he could feel her breath hot against his cheek, a breath steeped in naked honesty, in undeniable need, in alcohol. 

"Are you okay?" She searched his gaze; her eyes were wide and very luminous, and very dark. 

Carter blinked, a knot in his stomach twisting. Mouth dry, he almost laughed at the irony of the situation: how this acute feeling of rightness began to bleed and diffuse through the obvious wrongness of the situation. _She's drunk, he reminded himself.__ She doesn't want you. Not like this. She's drunk. Be her friend. Just…be her friend. _

"Hey," she said softly, interrupting his thoughts, her voice thick with emotion. Hesitantly, she rubbed small circles along his jaw with her thumb; slowly, sensuously, like lovers between the sheets, and almost sighed to feel the rough sandpapery feel of his cheek cupped in her hand. "What's wrong?"

_Be her friend. Just be her friend. "Abby," he began, just as softly, his voice rimmed with silver, gleaming like a star yawning in the inky night sky, "I don't think this is a good idea. You here, and me…" he trailed off, and cleared his throat. "I mean, you're drunk."_

Abby leaned into his warmth, the pressure of her hands on his face slackening and her lips parting. "Carter?" she whispered, her voice husky. Her breath rustled like silk against his face, hot and petal-soft.

"Yeah?" he whispered back. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. 

"I'm not drunk anymore."

Their heads bowed together, as if in prayer, and Abby closed her eyes. 

*          *          *

CREDITS: The title of the chapter is taken from REM's lovely song "Nightswimming," which can be found off their album _Automatic for the People_. Some lines of dialogue were lifted from Season Eight's "Supplies and Demands" and The Episode That Shall Remain Unnamed (at least until I can figure out where the lines came from!) in order to serve flashback purposes.


	4. From Dawn to Dusk

TITLE: Through the Door (4/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission, and notify when archived. Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Today's chapter is brought to you by a long list of credits that I have decided to place at the end because my author's notes are really getting to be too lengthy. ^_^ Chapter Three is dedicated again to everyone who reviewed Chapter Two: phoenix (your compliments are so lovely!), Songbird (I also thought that the writers cheated us big time by not showing us Carter's reaction to Abby's beating), Kate (I'm so glad you emailed so I could thank you properly), and Cat, who is a dear and deserves a plug because she is fabulous and so are her Carter/Abby fics (www.cat.cynicalgirls.com). Thanks and virtual cookies for all the reviews—it makes writing TTD that much more fun. *beams* Also, perpetual thanks to Neoxer and pix for hosting, as well. And, of course, I'm still a feedback whore, so all reviews are very, very appreciated! Review either on fanfiction.net under my pseudonym (C. Midori) or drop me an email at socksless@hotmail.com.

SUMMARY: In which Abby dreams, Carter moons, Abby asks Carter in on a non-date, and they spill their guts about relationships past. Also features the not-so-proverbial morning after and an Important Revelation by the long-suffering John Carter. __

CHAPTER THREE

From Dawn to Dusk__

_and i'll always need her more than she could ever need me_

*          *          *

THE DREAMS BEGAN IN SAND, soft, warm, infinite; unwinding like a spool of thread falling into the darkness. Swiftly, silently, they wrapped their arms around her hunched shoulders, telling her beautiful truths about the way he loved her laughter, dark and elusive like shadows along the periphery, loved the smell of her hair in the rain. The other world fell away as the dreams drew from her breath and lodged themselves in the very marrow of her bones, making promises she was sure would not keep outside of this blurred, hazy dream-world. 

Startled, Abby's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed. She immediately regretted the action. Her head began to throb in short, sharp bursts of pain, and she flopped back between the pillows. 

She blinked. 

With a dawning sense of horror, she shut her eyes, and then dared to open them again. She lay spread-eagled on a bed that was not her own, placating a headache between pillows that she had never seen before. Turning her head sideways, she caught a glimpse of the frame propped up on the nightstand by the bed, and a glance of the young boy pictured in it.   

_Shit. _

In a half-moment of panic, her hands scrambled to her body, and with an enormous exhale of relief she found that she was still dressed, albeit in the same rumpled, rain-dried outfit of yesterday. Stifling a groan, she sat up again, rubbing her eyes tiredly and letting her hair fall like a curtain around her face.

"Abby?" Carter stood in the doorway. "Are you feeling okay?"

She looked up, a melancholic frown on her face and the comforter bunched up around her waist. Hair mussed and eyes still shiny with sleep, she looked different, somehow. Younger. Vulnerable, maybe. Not as battle-scarred. 

He smiled. "That good, huh?" Amused, he walked over to take a seat on the bed. 

"Not so much," she slurred, half-drunkenly, as the mattress gently sloped. She avoided his eye.

"Here, take this." Carter handed her a glass of water and a couple of tablets. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungover," she grunted, squeezing her eyes shut. "Could be better."

"Could be worse," he countered, taking the glass from her when she finished. Unthinkingly, he reached out, his thumb wiping a bead of water that collected near the corner of her mouth. His heart lurched at the contact. Giving her an apologetic smile, he withdrew his hand quickly; his thumb was still wet with the moisture on her lips. 

Abby pressed her lips together and looked away, squinting as the early morning light slanted through the window and draped like fine cloth across her face. "I'm not sure what to say."

Carter smiled awkwardly. "You don't have to say anything."

"Carter, I _barfed_ on you last night. I'm sure something along the lines of 'I'm sorry' would be appropriate for the occasion."

He shrugged. "Nothing I haven't seen in the ER."

It was as if she didn't hear him. She pursed her lips, fiddling with her sleeves. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here last night."

"You shouldn't have gotten drunk," he cut in quickly.

"Carter," she warned, annoyance creeping into her voice. Carter remained mute, and, Abby thought, rather moody. "Okay, you know what, this is not exactly how I envisioned it would be."

"Envisioned _what_ would be?"

"The morning after."

Astonished, Carter began to sputter. "I…you…you've imagined…the morning after?"

"Yes."

"Waking up?"

"Yeah, well, one tends to do that in the morning."

"With me?"

"Maybe." She looked at him boldly. "What, like you haven't?"

"Imagined waking up with myself? Actually, no."

She glared at him.

"Ms. Lockhart," Carter tried but failed to smother the broad grin that spread across his face, "Well, well."

"Well, well, _what_?" she retorted, her cheeks very flushed.

He gave her an appraising look. "Tell you what. Let me make you breakfast, and we'll pretend like the whole barfing thing never happened."  He stood up and held out his hand. She hesitated only slightly before taking it, and followed him out of the room and down the hallway.

"So you fantasize about me, huh?"

"Shut up, Carter."

*          *          *

"Shut up, Carter," she laughed. "What, you don't think I can cook?"

Carter looked at her skeptically as they talked over the patient between them.

"Is this Abby 'Takeout Queen' Lockhart I'm talking to?" he snorted.

Abby smiled as she took the man's pulse. "I swear to god, I'm a pretty decent chef. Besides, I owe you."

"What'd you do?" Abe Bluth, aged sixty-four and suffering from severe chest pains, cut in with a wheeze.

"Nothing," Abby answered at the same time Carter replied, "She threw up on me."

She glared at him. Carter smothered a grin.

Abby raised an eyebrow. "So?"

Carter cleared his throat. "I don't know what to say," he admitted, jotting something down on Abe's chart. "This is so sudden," he joked. 

"Well." Abby paused. "Most people like to say _yes_ or _no_," she said solemnly. Carter made a face.

"I think you should say yes," Abe rasped to Carter, his wrinkled forehead crinkling in amusement. "It'll be like a date."

"It's not a date," they responded in unison.

"I said _like_ a date," he roared, with a violent cough. "My heart." He hammered his chest weakly. Then, winking at Carter, "Anyway, it's not every day that a pretty girl asks you out."

"Oh, I'm not that pretty," Abby replied automatically.

"She's not asking me out," Carter added.

"Asking you in, asking you out, whatever." Abe grinned crookedly, and, with a loud gasp, passed out.

As they rushed Abe Bluth, aged sixty-four and suffering from a potentially fatal heart attack, to the OR, Carter looked over at Abby. "So what time should I be there?"

Abby smiled.

*          *          *

Carter fidgeted before her front door, clearing his throat and fumbling with the bouquet of dried flowers in his hand. He cleared his throat several times. "Hello, Abby…Good evening, Miss Lockhart…Hel_lo_, Abby…"

Scrambling in the kitchen, Abby suddenly paused. Was that…?

"Greetings, Abby." Inwardly, Carter groaned. "Ass," he said under his breath. He tried lowering his voice. "Hey, Abby."

On the other side of the door, Abby grinned. 

Screwing up his nerves, he took a deep breath and raised his fist to knock.

The door swung open. "Hel_lo_, Carter," she said solemnly.

"Abby. Hi." He flushed. "You, uh, heard that?" he squeaked.

"Well, well," she drawled.

Swallowing, Carter became aware of the color flooding his cheeks. "I brought you flowers," he said dumbly, thrusting the bouquet in front of her.

She regarded him silently, amused. "Come in," she finally laughed, backing away from the door. "And, thanks."

"They're dead," he added helpfully, as she strode into the kitchen. He shrugged off his coat and threw it over the couch. 

"You remembered. Would you lock the door for me?" she called over her shoulder.

"Sure." He stared warily at the line of deadbolts and intricate set of locks. "What's with the home security system?"

"Brian. Luka put the locks in for me."

"Oh." Immediately, Carter felt like an idiot. 

"Sorry about the heat," he heard her say. "My air-conditioner's broken." He wandered into the kitchen, and something inside of him swelled to see her rumpled form, her face open and relaxed. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a messy ponytail, wisps falling softly around her eyes, and bare arms and neck slipped out of a cotton t-shirt. She was barefoot. 

"What?" Abby raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

Carter blinked. "What?"

"You're staring."

"You've got flour on your cheek," was all he could say.

*          *          *

Wiping his mouth fastidiously, Carter leaned back. "So there you have it. John Carter's personal dating history."

"John Carter: Man or Animal?" Abby teased.

"Can't touch Howie Thomas, I'm sure," he kidded back. As she looked away, smiling, he took the time to study the line of her profile, clean and lovely against the sunset that blazed through open windows, the buttery light gilding her skin. "So what about you?"

"What about me?" Taking a delicate sip of her water, she raised her eyebrows over the glass.

"Abigail Lockhart's personal dating history. Talk."

"Too long to tell," she replied loftily. 

"Well, give me the condensed version," he persisted. "Pick out the important ones. The _special_ ones," he added meaningfully.

"Ah…well, Howie Thomas, of course. Can't forget the longest twenty seconds of my life. Then there were some guys in college, but I'd hardly call them special. And then Richard." She put down her glass. "He was special. Very special."

"Really?"

"A special kind of asshole."

Carter stifled his laughter. "And Luka?" 

She laughed. "Yeah, and then there was Luka."

He cleared his throat. "What went wrong?" 

"With Luka?"

"No, with Richard," he said sarcastically. "Yes, with Luka. I already know what went wrong with Richard."

"Oh yeah?" She arched an eyebrow. "What went wrong?"

"He did."

Abby's mouth curved into a very becoming smile. "Exactly right."

"And with Luka?"

She exhaled. "I dunno."

"Liar," he joked. "You're holding out."

"Well, you were there," she laughed. "Why don't you tell me what went wrong? And don't say Luka," she warned.

Idly, Carter traced random figure eights on the surface of the table. "I…I'm really in no place to say."

"Smart man. The non-answer answer. You should get a gold star for that one."

"Keep it. I learned it from you," he said, not unkindly. 

Abby gazed at him thoughtfully. "From me, huh?" She chuckled. "I guess so."

He watched water trickle down the side of his sweating glass. "So why hasn't some guy on a white horse swept you off your feet yet?" 

"Oh, I'm not in need of rescuing."

"What about some guy and a white picket fence, then?" 

Embarrassed, Abby shifted her weight in her seat. "I don't think so. I'm not cut out for domesticity."

"Well, you can obviously cook."

"Told you so," she crowed, not bothering to hide the smugness in her voice.

"And I think you'd make a great mom…"

"I don't know…"

"…and a great wife."

Without meaning to, Abby laughed. "You volunteering for picket fence duty?"

"Just say the word," Carter smiled, only half-joking. 

"Very funny." She pursed her lips, and then stared at him unflinchingly. "So what about you, Carter?"

"What about me?"

"Why hasn't some girl clubbed you over the head and dragged you to her cave?"

"Well, Susan wasn't the clubbing type," he joked. 

Abby leaned forward, propping her chin on her elbows, tilting her head. "What happened with you and Susan, anyway?"

"What about me and Susan?" 

"Now who's holding out?" Abby laughed.

Carter laughed as well. "Susan and I are just friends."

"Right."

"Mmm hmmm."

"Why'd you two break up?"

Startled, Carter reddened, remembering that midwinter night, the snow crunching beneath his feet as he kissed her, Susan. 

"Come on, Carter, don't hold out on me now."

It was an affectionate kiss; it was an honest kiss. But when he opened his eyes the world was as it were before—no more, and no less, for it. 

"Carter?"

_You should tell her._

_Who? Tell her what?_

_That you're desperately in love with her and can't live another moment without her._

Abby leaned in, amused. "Earth to Carter! You're a million miles away."

He shook his head. "What?"

"Aren't you even going to answer my question?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Carter hedged. "Because," he said finally.

"What are you, five? That's not an answer."

"Yes it is."

"Is not."

"Is too."

"_Carter_."

"Okay." He stalled. "Uh…"

Abby looked at him expectedly. 

"I…uh…she thinks I still have a crush on you," he confessed, in a rush.

"Oh." Abby drew a shaky breath and concentrated on keeping her tone light. "I've heard that one before. You say that again and I just might start to believe it," she joked.

"What if…" he trailed off, mustering his courage. "What if I did?" 

"What, say it again?"

"No."

Startled, Abby swallowed, the silence stretching between them for several beats like a taut cord. She became increasingly aware of his eyes on her as he stared intently, reverently, at the waning light skating off her face, dipping into her laughing mouth, haloing her tousled head of curls.

"You're staring again," she said, a trifle too carelessly. Panic began to swell inside of her, balloon-like, and she rushed to rise out of her chair. "I—I'm going to get more water. Do you want anything?"

Growing increasingly determined, Carter stood up with her. "I want you to just listen to me for a moment."

He was standing at arm's length but to her it was as if there was no distance, no distance at all. He held her eyes with his gaze, impressing upon her the weight of knowledge inevitable, knowledge she simultaneously ached for and hated. She ached for it like she ached for him to touch her, unconsciously leaning forward so that their arms brushed and she shivered. She hated it like she hated herself for shivering when he physically closed the distance between them. She knew what they were approaching, what might come to pass, and the chaos in her head was unparalleled as the moment pivoted on a hot needle, sharp and dangerous.  

"Abby." Gently, he took her hands in his, selecting his words carefully, deliberately. "I…I've been waiting for something to happen—with us."

Abby squeezed her eyes shut at the sound of the familiar words, her words. Panic fluttered like a trapped bird in her chest; she heard its wings beat crazily against its cage. Dizzily, she opened her eyes again, and looked down at their hands, hands woven together like twine.

Carter searched her face, looking for something to grasp, his own expression heartbreakingly open. "You were right," he began desperately, his hands gripping hers, willing her to turn to him and to listen. "You were right."

She lifted her gaze to meet his. "Right about what?"

He stared at her, and released her hands, then smoothed her hair away from her face; let his hands frame her dark eyes, her flushed cheeks, her slight pout; let his fingers memorize the sweep of her eyelashes against her skin, the way her brow crinkled in fear and in expectation and in wanting.

"That night on the bridge. You told me I didn't have to settle for anyone. But you weren't over Luka; I know you weren't. And I was scared."

"Scared?" she said faintly, her heart pounding in her ears. 

"I'm scared now," he laughed, nervous, but then sobered. "I'm scared about the way I feel…about you, Abby. I—I don't want to settle anymore."

She drew a long, shuddering breath. "The way you feel…about me?"

He gazed at her, intently, heatedly, and leaned in. She closed her eyes and trembled when his lips brushed against her cheek, dusty and petal-soft, then whispered notes of silence against the line of her jaw. And his mouth drew near hers, warm and inviting. 

She jerked back. A blast of fear shot through her chest. Blindly, roughly, she pulled away. "I'm sorry," she croaked, looking down. She could not bear to look at him—she could not bear to see what she had done. "I can't do this."

Blinking, Carter felt something inside of him snap with great violence, as if a piano string had broken. He saw that she hugged herself tightly, like that day in the ambulance bay, her face cool and indifferent. Except her voice and her posture betrayed her. He winced—she looked like he had _wounded _her.

He found his voice. "You can't do what?"

She gripped herself tightly, knuckles turning deathly white. "You know what I mean."

"No," he said, frustrated, "I _don't_. I don't read minds, let alone yours. Why can't you just _tell me_ what you mean?"

"I'm not asking you to read my mind," she spat, deflecting his question. 

"Stop doing this." His voice grew louder. "Be honest with me, Abby, just this one time."

"Should I answer that or can I just glare?" Abby stared at him, offended. "I _am_ honest with you, Carter. All the time."

"Not about everything," he challenged, frustration scalding white hot against his eyes.  

"Well, Carter, I'm sorry I don't tell you _everything_ about my life."

"I'm not asking you to tell me everything that goes on in your life."

"Maybe I should start telling you what I eat for breakfast, or what new reality television show occupies my time, so I can be more _honest_ with you."

"Look, Abby, that's not what I mean."

"Well, then, what did you mean? Because I certainly don't lie to you. I don't."

"I know you don't lie—" 

"Well, then, what the hell do you _want_ from me?"

"I don't _want_ anything _from_ you," he yelled. "_I just want you._"

They stood there in stunned silence, staring at each other. Unconsciously, Abby reached out and gripped the side of a counter. She felt sick. She felt like she was drowning, water rapidly suffocating her lungs, making it difficult to breathe. 

"Carter," she said helplessly, "I…"

"I want you," Carter repeated, his voice low.

She fell silent again. It was a simple statement, Abby thought hazily; simple, effective, got the point across without giving too much away. She let her hands fall to her sides, and she stood there, and she said nothing.

"I want to stop this—this dance we do. I'm tired of all these conversations…all these words that go nowhere. I'm tired of noticing the way you look at me when you think I don't see you—and I know I look at you the same way. I'm tired of feeling like there must be someone for everyone out there, but for me, that person may be you, and I know you're too goddamn scared to ever say anything to me and I'm too goddamn scared to ever call you on it. Except…I'm more scared now that we'll both just…settle…because we're too scared to do anything else."

They stared at each other. It was Carter who broke their eye contact when he stared at his hands, hands that were holding her mere minutes ago. When he spoke his voice was even, the anger gone from his words, now polished with a perfect restraint, though his eyes were enormous in his thin face. "I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry. I'll go."

A palpitation grew behind her eyes; it beat insolently against the livid brightness of the dying sun that smarted against her eyelids. "Where are you going?" He didn't answer; merely picked up his coat and headed for the door. Terrified, Abby called after him, her body rooted in place. "_Carter._"

When he turned around, her chest constricted. He was smiling, but it was an awful, horrible smile, the kind that made her look away, however briefly, to mute the flash of pain it caused.

"What?" The door was unlocked, his hand on the knob. "What do you want, Abby?" he said evenly. He stood there. For one, then two beats, then three.

Abby stared at him, at Carter, at her best friend, the silence pregnant and dark and unnerving. 

Say it. Say it, Abby.

She opened her mouth, as if to speak, but no sound came from it.  

The door opened and he went through it. She stood there, motionless, as it shut behind him. Night painted long, artful strokes across her apartment, smearing its fingers across her face; she let herself sink to the floor, the room before her a flat, unlit land.

*          *          *

CREDITS: The quote prefacing the chapter is taken from the Smashing Pumpkin's "In the Arms of Sleep," off of their album _Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness_. As far as I'm concerned, Billy Corgan is The Man when it comes to songwriting, and I've been impatiently waiting to use one of his lyrics to jump-start a chapter. The dinner-date-that-is-not-a-date was inspired by Carter and Abby's non-date in Season 7's "Thy Will Be Done." (Carter! In a tux! *squeals with glee*) Some lines were lifted from the end of Season 8's fantastic "Secrets and Lies," and are indicated in italics to denote a brief flashback. An oblique reference is given to the website Noah Wyle: Man or Animal (http://www.btinternet.com/~orlando/wyle.htm) just because I think NW is fabulous (naturally!) and so are the photos on that site. Finally, Abby's comment to Carter, "Should I answer that or can I just glare?", is paraphrased from a quote on Joss Whedon's excellently-written Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And that's all, folks. Phew. 


	5. In the Arms of Sleep

TITLE: Through the Door (5/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission, and notify when archived. Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Super-sized thanks and a Chapter Four dedication to everyone who reviewed Chapter Three: Ceri, Raine, Alanna, Reza, and Cat! The reviews were amazingly insightful, generous, and kind—a constant source of encouragement as I wrangled with the monster that was Chapter Four. Virtual cookies also to Neoxer and pix for hosting—they've done a fabulous job being unbelievably prompt with updating. And now I'm going to soapbox for a bit. ^_^ Chapter Four marks the halfway point of TTD as it looks (tentatively) to be an eight-part story, book-ended by a prologue and epilogue. As such, it is a turning point in Carter and Abby's relationship—milk chocolate and a deliriously happy author for anyone who can explain it! Finally, all feedback is ENORMOUSLY appreciated (heh), especially for this chapter, which was on the receiving end of about two weeks of revision. o_O *wipes sweat from brow* Drop me an email at socksless@hotmail.com. You can also review TTD under my pseudonym, C. Midori, at fanfiction.net, although ff.net is currently down (again). 

SUMMARY: It's sweeps week as Abby fights and Carter flees in an orgy of guest stars: Foreshadowing makes an appearance along with Big Suzie (back by popular demand ^_-), Luka, and even Frank makes a cameo. Also, a little Maggie, a lot of conversation, some soul-searching, Abby drops a bombshell or two, and everybody is miserable, of course.

CHAPTER FOUR

In the Arms of Sleep__

_sleep will not come to this body now  
peace will not come to this lonely heart___

*          *          *

WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD there were nights, innumerable nights, spent standing barefoot on the front lawn, dew tickling the pink soles of her feet, a kind of primitive, innocent anguish twisting her lungs as she waited fervently for Maggie to return each time her mother disappeared. Maggie always disappeared at night, just as she returned: stealthily, guiltily, slipping through the backdoor, unmindful that someone was listening with tense, unhappy eyes. 

These nights slipped by like pearls off a string, each exactly like the previous, each irrevocably lost and more precious for it. On moonless nights she let the incandescent bulb in the kitchen burn as she stood outside, her small frame backlit against the little square of light, her chin wobbling and tears threatening to spill over her fat cheeks as she waited, her face half-shrouded in shadows. But every other night she waited by the light of the moon, memorizing its path along the sky, its waxing and waning. She memorized the elegant crescents, the awkward half-bulges, the pregnant full orbs. The shape of each night was the same as the night before, save the lone bright circle in the sky, and she learned to measure lost time by this circle, wondering if her mother did the same.

After awhile she learned to stop waiting.

But at first it was waiting, only waiting. She could see herself clearly: the messy, uncombed hair pulled roughly back in pigtails; the dark, too-serious eyes even as a child; the lopsided pout tugging at her full mouth. She could see herself now as she saw herself then—frightened, agonized, head full of confusion and heart full of ache each time Maggie disappeared only to return a few days, maybe a week, maybe even two weeks later, with new scars on her arms and hands, and a greasy bag of fast food for penance. But then the apologetic kisses, and the pleading eyes, and the food left on the table, grease soaked through and through, staining the conventional brown bag. The nights of torment, of anguish, of waiting, swept away with the delirium of her mother's return, putting to rest her deepest fear that such a return would never come.  

But now, the same again. Surely she had grown older, her face lengthening and her hair benefiting from the regular use of a comb. But still the same sad eyes, the same mouth wrung in the unhappiness of so many years ago, as she sat in the dark in her apartment, the phone resting by the table leg where she had dropped it and several empty bottles rolling over the hardwood floor in long, drawn out notes, like the touch of cello and bow.

She sat still, listening for the knock on her door. She waited for the soft turn of the knob, for his light, easy footsteps, his earnest gazes, his frank words; she waited half-hopefully, half-foolishly, as she did many nights ago, for some kind of retraction, for a voice to tell her that things were going to be okay, for his voice to tell her that they would be okay no matter what, even if this, this horrible thing, had happened.

Things had not changed, really. She was older, but she doubted much wiser, and still she waited, a thin beam of moonlight falling on her face as she let herself cry. 

*          *          *

How far he had run he did not know. He only obeyed the command in his head to flee, as far as possible, and so his legs carried him. Out the door, down the corridor, and down the stairs, legs pushing forward. Always forward. Eyes never glancing backwards. Then, a burning in his lungs he tried to ignore and a scorching behind his eyes he could not. 

Eventually he stopped, the pounding in his chest too painful to bear, his legs wavering under the strain of exertion. Perspiration trickled down the side of his face in infinitesimally small rivulets, his breath coming in sharp gasps and his mouth hanging open dumbly as he stood in the middle of an unknown neighborhood full of curious strangers. 

_Let them stare_, he thought defiantly, bending over to rest his hands on his knees. When he stood up again he winced, the pain breaking paths up and down his back as he tried to trace the terrible sense of wrongness that tightened around her chest like a thread.

The sidesteps, the glancing touches, the fleeting looks—it was the dance they did to skirt the uneasy prospect of what loomed beyond friendship, this prospect wavering on the horizon like a mirage. And that's all it was, Carter realized. A mirage. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet he had himself believe it _was_ something more, something real, and with folly he had pushed her hand to touch it, only to have them both grasping at air, their friendship perhaps irretrievably and irrevocably lost, like water slipping through their fingers and spilling to the ground. Lost like the tide that smoothed over her features, or the undertow that kept her emotions pulled tightly toward a vast, empty space, untouchable by man. 

She was indecipherable, uncontainable, as blank and still as the sea from great distance; she drew him in with her complicated beauty and the dark, secret places that shimmered just below the cool, impassive surface. She cried when she thought no one was looking. She was strong. She never pretended to be anything more or less than who she was. She was vulnerable. She was generous with her time and with her friendship, but retreated far into herself. She hid behind her evasive turns of speech and her quick, lashing tongue. She made him laugh. She was complicated. She was difficult and goddamn frustrating at times. 

She was beautiful. 

He had never known a person quite like Abby, nor had he ever had such a good friend. But now he wondered if that was all lost, swallowed up by a squall of his creation; he wondered if she would now look at him with the cruel indifference of an after-storm calm. 

Exhaling, he turned around and began the long walk home.

*          *          *

_One week later. _

Chicago lay like an animal stilled, cowering in the oppressive July heat. Light glimmered off the opaque surface of the river like the quiet murmuring of voices that shimmered inside the empty halls of County General. Behind the front desk, deep in thought, Abby stared at the clipboard in her hands. Susan regarded her seriously.

"I don't know." Abby smoothed her hair away from her face. "I just don't know."

"He's about to die," Susan said.

"God, it's hot," she replied gloomily, ignoring the observation and swiping at her forehead with her sleeve. "I hate the greenhouse effect."

"Keeps the freaks at home," Frank chimed in from behind a mountain of paperwork.

"Didn't you say that about subzero temperatures?" Susan retorted, good-naturedly. "Abby, hurry up."

Hands knotted in her hair and a pen caught between her teeth, Abby exhaled. "F?"

"Sorry, but thanks for playing our game." Susan smiled gleefully. "You lose."

"I told you," Abby laughed, "I suck at Hangman."

"Yeah, yeah you do. Rematch?"

"Maybe later." Elbows leaning against the counter, Abby pushed herself on her feet. "Sorry," she said automatically, holding her hand up to apologize, as she bumped against another person. She turned around to find herself locking gazes with Luka.

He touched her sleeve lightly. "Abby. Hey."

"Luka." Giving him a tight smile, she pushed her hair away from her face. "Sorry about that."

"It's okay," he smiled. "I don't mind bumping into you. How are you?"

"Uh, fine," she called over her shoulder, grabbing a clipboard and walking away.

He tagged at her heels. "Is everything okay?"

"Yep. Just peachy."

"I know how hard it can be to—"

"Luka, leave it alone."

"I'm sorry." Chastised, Luka held up his hands in mock surrender. "I don't want to fight with you."

Abby sighed. "I know you don't."

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay, even though…"

She cut him off. "Hey, you in charge of the patient in Curtain Three?"

"Yeah. Why do you ask?"

"You should probably go attend to him."

"Why?"

"Well, he's walking around naked, for starters."

Panicked, Luka spun around. "Very funny, Abby, but there's no—"

He stopped abruptly, blinking in surprise, for she had disappeared.

*          *          *

The room was empty and dark. Abby closed the door with a gentle nudge and leaned against the wall, rubbing tiredly at her eyes with the heel of her hand. She was exhausted. The predawn was quickly becoming her most hated time of the day—slumped in her bed, nursing a beer and a massive hangover, she spent the last week replaying the same words in her head in an endless repetition of cold cadences and heated words. Exhaling painfully, she examined these words again, straining for an ounce of falsehood stirred in with the truth—something, anything, to reassure her that they weren't anything more than hideous lies, disfigured inklings of truth. 

But they weren't lies. None of them were lies. She clutched at her stomach, now churning and queasy, and sucked in a breath, sliding to the floor and letting her head slam back against the wall.

Abruptly, the door to the room opened. 

"Luka," Abby groaned, "I told you to leave it—"

"Abby?" Started, she looked to find Susan staring at her. "You know, we have this thing called electricity. It's great. You should really try it some time."

She gave her friend a tired smile. "I like the dark."

"Okay." Susan closed the door behind her. Peering into the darkness, she frowned. "God, you look terrible. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Some."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Bluntly, "Did something happen with you and Carter?"

"No," Abby lied.

"Because you've both been looking pretty scary this week."

"Thanks."

"And you missed a couple of days of work."

Abby hesitated. "I wasn't feeling well."

"You work at a hospital, you know that. We're in the business of making people feel better."

"Hospitals can't fix everything."

"Depends on what you need fixed," Susan countered, joining Abby against the wall, who said nothing in response. Idly, Susan ran a free hand through her short, blond hair. "Jesus, Abby. Talking to you is like talking to a brick wall."

"Kind of talkative brick wall, don't you think?" Abby reasoned. "Some of my answers were a good three, even four words long."

"Now that's the Abigail Lockhart we all know and tolerate," Susan smiled. 

"At your service."

A pause. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"You're hiding out in an empty exam room in the dark. That must be some nothing you've got there."

"I'm meditating." 

"Right. And meditating happens to look suspiciously like moping."

"What, like you've never indulged yourself in a good mope?"

"I thought you said you were meditating," Susan laughed.

"I lied."

"Abby…"

"I told you already, there's nothing to talk about."

"Right, then. Brick wall it is." Susan exhaled. "It's really difficult being your friend sometimes, Abby."

Abby glanced at her sideways. "So I've heard."

Susan smothered a smile. "So we are friends."

"Did I say we were?"

"You didn't say we weren't."

Finally, Abby smiled. "I guess so. I guess we are."

Susan grinned back. "So you wanna tell me what's going on between you and Carter?"

*          *          *

The moon shone full and bright in spite of the storm clouds that hung low and ominous in the overcast sky. Under the light of this full moon, Susan let Abby talk, the words falling from her lips in succinct succession—cool, rational and level. And when she was finished, Susan let out a long breath.

"Wow."

"Yeah."

"So he really is in love with you."

Abby shifted her weight. "Something like that."

Susan was dazed.

"You were right," Abby said, finally.

"I was guessing."

She laughed ruefully. "Well, it was a good guess, then."

Susan joined in the laughter. "Yeah, well, what can I say? I have a knack for reading our boy Carter."

"Must come with the burden of being his girlfriend."

"Ex," Susan corrected her. "Actually, as far as people go, he's pretty easy to read. Especially when it comes to you. Guy wears his heart on his sleeve, what can he say."

Abby said nothing, but fumbled in her pockets for a cigarette. 

"You know, you can't keep doing this."                           

"Doing what?" She yanked a smoke from its pack, and brought it to her lips.

"Ignoring this. Ignoring him."

"Why not?"

"Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"I try not to," Abby replied dryly, sucking at the cigarette at her mouth.

"Abby, I'm worried about you. And I'm guessing Carter is, too," Susan sighed. "You two really look like hell. Neither of you look like you've gotten more than a couple of hours of sleep in the last week, and you can't keep this up if you're going to work in the ER."

"Ah, the Think of the Patients angle."

Susan shrugged. "When all else fails."

Abby said nothing, but held the smoke in her lungs, exhaling slowly. 

"Talk to him. We're all mature adults here. We can handle conversation, right?"

Abby shuffled her feet against the ground, a hot, humid air blowing in her face. "I'm afraid," she grinned mirthlessly, as a rueful laugh escaped her lips. 

"So is he."

She shook her head emphatically. "You don't understand. There's…something else."

"Something else or someone else?"

Abby stared out into the darkness, letting her cigarette fall to the ground. "There's no one else."

The clouds shifted, revealing a small puzzle-patch of sky. Abby lifted her face sky-wards, and Susan followed her gaze. In that small space the moon shone full like the face of a lost orphan surrounded by a handful of stars sprinkled across the expanse. 

They stood there, silently, looking out into the vast amounts of blackness, saying nothing.

"The ER is not my life," Susan began, slowly, meditatively. "I left it five years ago because I wanted to know what it was like to be Susan Lewis, not Dr. Susan Lewis of County General, because there was nothing left for me in Chicago except my job. 

"But there was—something—left.  Some_one_, actually. Someone I hadn't thought of, because he had been there for so long that I took him for granted. I don't think I've ever told you this, but when I was leaving, Mark"—here, Abby heard her voice catch—"Told me that he loved me. 

"And as my train left, I told him that I loved him, too. I think that was the first time I ever said anything like that to him. And it was the first time I ever realized that I could, maybe, love him. I had just never thought of him in the way, before, until it was too late, you know?

"But once I said it, I knew I meant it. Then I left, and it was too late: when I came back, he was happily married. So I…settled for someone else."

"And the moral of the story is…?" Abby asked quietly.

"The hell if I know." Susan smiled. "What's Dr. Corday like, anyway?"

Taken aback, Abby laughed. "She's very…British."

"Yeah, I got that impression, too." Giving Abby a half-smile, she touched her friend's arm gently, then turned around to walk away. 

Abby stared after her until the fair head disappeared out of sight. Sighing, she stuck out her hand and raised her upturned palm, feeling a few fat droplets splatter against her skin, then peered into the darkness below. She thought she detected a sudden movement; as her eyes grew accustomed to the pattern of shadows on the ground, she saw that she was right.

It was Carter. She watched him silently as he walked away from the ER, his hands shielding his eyes from the water that was beginning to descend rapidly from above. She saw him pause, suddenly, and turn around. For a fraction of a second, she could have sworn that he had seen her up on the roof, for a flash of recognition, then of inestimable sadness, crossed his face. But then it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a blank sort of tiredness as he turned back around and walked into the night. 

*          *          *

It began raining. First slowly, than with a desperate sort of intensity until he was soaked, his shirt and tie plastered to his thin frame. He hadn't intended to take a walk, so he hadn't brought an umbrella; then again, he hadn't intended to work overtime, hanging around for a brief glimpse of Abby that never materialized, but he had. _Pathetic_, he thought, squeezing his sopping tie in a grim fist.

"Carter."

As always, he knew who it was before he turned around. He knew her voice like he knew no other; knew its low, subdued lilt, its wry good-humor, and now, curiously, its quiet sort of desperation. When he turned to face her, he felt his body ache with a kind of somber, age-old weariness at sight of her small figure. Caught in the rain, outlined in lamplight, she stood huddled under the water that pelted her body in sheets, her hair framing her face in thick, wet tendrils.

"Abby," he nodded. 

It was the first time he had said her name aloud in a week, and its cadences sounded foreign and lovely to her ear. "You look like you need an umbrella," she blurted.

"So do you," he pointed out, raising his voice over the din of the storm. He heard the distant rumble of thunder as the droplets began to fall with an increasing frequency. 

"I'm without."

Silently, they stared at each other for several moments.

"Look," Carter finally broke in, "I'm not really feeling up to shouting at each other in the rain, so if you don't mind I—"

"I was wondering," she burst in, haltingly, as she took several faltering steps toward his neutral figure, "I was wondering," she repeated, more quietly, as she stood an arm's length away, close enough so that he could feel her skin glowing warm and wet with summer and rain, "If we could talk."

"We don't have anything to talk about," Carter replied, a mirthless sort of smile crossing his face. 

"Please—" she said, so weakly that she laughed at herself for sounding so pathetic. But she was beyond that, now. "If you could just—let me—talk—"

He turned to leave, but something in her face gave him pause, something so unfamiliar and alien to her—something like helplessness. So, instead, he folded his arms across his chest, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. "I'm listening."

"I'm not sure where to start."

"The beginning is a good place for most."

"Right." She exhaled, bringing a hand to her eyes.

"What?" He looked at her expectedly as she remained mute, the old sort of frustration beginning to flare up inside of him again like a match brought to flame. He tried, but could not keep the edge out of his voice. "Abby?"

"My mother's dead."

The world held its breath as the rest of her words came to him as if in a dream, or, he thought dazedly, some horrible nightmare. Maggie Wyczenski was dead. Found half-dressed and overdosed in a Florida motel room by a hapless desk clerk who was just doing another routine room check. No possessions found on her body save two dollars, some empty prescription bottles in her pockets similar to the ones strewn around the room, and a slip of paper with a Chicago area phone number scrawled on it. The phone number was hers, Abby's; the phone call came exactly one week ago, at night, not twenty minutes after he had left. 

Shocked, Carter felt himself start to gag. "Abby." Clumsily, he ran his hands roughly over her bare arms, feeling where the rain slicked her skin under the short sleeves of her thin shirt, and he was unmindful of the water that fell, if possible, even harder, like thousands of tiny daggers against their drenched selves. "You didn't say anything to me."

She looked up at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You were angry with me."

Immediately, he was ashamed. "No."

"Yes. You were angry with me," she repeated insistently, cutting him off, her voice distant and her eyes very faraway.

Carter felt his head begin to spin, blood and water roaring in his ears. "You should've come to me."

"I didn't know what to do."

"I would've helped you—somehow—"

"I went to Luka."

The streets were cold and silent, as they stood there, moon-stained, drenched in water and light. The moment pivoted on a prism point, sharp and acutely bright, and he drew a sudden intake of breath when it cut him, a crystal blade lodging itself between muscle and sinew, twisting mercilessly, and he couldn't breathe, for there was no air, no air at all, nothing but water and light, light and water, blinding him and crushing him, crushing him, blinding him, and only her voice, small and wretched, cutting through the haze.

"And I slept with him."

Then he was falling.

"Carter—" Vaguely, he could hear her voice and her composure cracking, and noted, dimly, that she was struggling not to cry, her eyes bright and full of tears. "My mother—is dead—I don't—I don't know—what I'm supposed to do—"

Unconsciously, he drew her to him, his chest unbearably tight. 

"Tell me we're going to be okay. _Tell me we're going to be okay._"

There was a quiet—an aching, humming quiet—and a chill.

*          *          *

_she comes to me like an angel out of time  
as i play the part of a saint on my knees_

*          *          *

CREDITS: The title of the chapter as well as the opening and closing quotations are once again taken from the Smashing Pumpkin's "In the Arms of Sleep" because they are so damn fitting and provide some heavy-handed symbolism. ^_^ Frank and his one comment appear courtesy of my recent multiple viewings of "Beyond Repair," IMHO one of the strongest episodes of Season Eight and a veritable Abby-palooza (huzzah). Carter and Abby's angst-fest in the rain is inspired by the scene in the Pilot episode of The X-Files in which Mulder and Scully (the original Power Couple of Unresolved Sexual Tension) scream at each other on a rain-soaked night in Oregon. *swoons* Lastly, Abby's final lines of dialogue are lifted directly from the tepid Season Eight finale "Lockdown" (which I usually try to ignore in hopes that it will Go Away) because MT can sell just about anything, even bad screenwriting. 


	6. Amnesiac

TITLE: Through the Door (6/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission, and notify when archived. Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks and chocolate-covered everything to everyone who reviewed Chapter Four: Em, Stephanie, CorruptCarbyChickie, Ceri, Kate, and Lyssa. The muse decided to play hooky midway through the writing of Chapter Five and your reviews definitely kept me going for many a lonely night. ^_^ Thanks also to Neoxer and pix for hosting—and, Holy Schnikes, Batman, fanfiction.net is back up! *dances* Am still a feedback whore, so please review—email me at socksless@hotmail.com or find me at ff.net under my pseudonym. 

SUMMARY: In which Our Heroes talk a whole lot, Carter and Luka are forced to share screen time, and The Truth sets people free in a most X-Files-esque fashion.  

CHAPTER FIVE

Amnesiac

_And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.  
John 8:32_

*          *          *

THEY WERE STANDING IN THE RAIN, their wet bodies pressed together so tightly that neither water nor light seemed to spill between them. Words fell upon her palate like falling snow—soft, easy and muted. Her hands clutched at him with a sort of reckless abandon, and his hands to her, and they breathed in the scent of rainwater mingled with tears. 

Then they were in her apartment, he asking her where she kept her towels and she gesturing vaguely before falling to the floor, exhausted. She sat there, numbed, as he joined her on the ground, his throat murmuring soft, soothing sounds close to her ear and his hands squeezing the water out of her hair with a towel. Sitting down, he did not seem so tall anymore, and she was grateful that he let them sit in such a position that he did not tower over her. His skin glowed warm against hers and sleep pressed down upon her eyelids like fingertips. 

Gently, then, they walked to her bedroom, his arm tucked around her waist and her arm slung over his shoulder. A jumbled swarm of memories slogged through her head, thick like a sluggish river. The river had no end and no beginning and she drowned a little in it; in her sleep-induced haze, she could almost feel the brackish taste of muddy river water in her mouth.

He closed the door behind them and turned away from her as she peeled the wet clothes from her body.

*          *          *

It was still dark when Abby awoke, bare limbs slipping out of cotton pajamas and sliding smoothly against clean bed sheets as she felt herself rise out of sleep. Cautiously, she opened her eyes and with a careless sweep of the hand she brushed away the hair from her face so to better stare at the sight before her. 

It was Carter, asleep and dreaming, sprawled on a chair dragged in from the kitchen. Somewhere in his sleeping face she thought she could see the boy he once was, the fresh-faced med student and eager young doctor he must have been, before his stabbing and his addiction took all that away in one violent, purposive sweep of the arm. Then she saw the man who had taken his place. In the shadowy cobalt of the room she thought she could almost see the scars tangled in every breath and every movement of his body. She knew these scars well, for she bore them herself—they were the scars of someone who had been to hell and back again, and now walked the earth with the weight of that journey etched indelibly upon their mind.

But it took only a cursory glance at his slumbering face to see that he was still a kind man, a kind friend, whose kindness was perhaps scarred but remained largely untouched by the events of his life that had forced lines along his young face. It was this kindness that tugged at her chest and created an ache in the back of her throat for in her stubborn self-reliance she had taken his kindness and treated it badly. Although she had never consciously held the _knowledge_ in the hollow of her hand, in that quiet moment she admitted to herself that, yes, she had been _aware_, aware for a very long time, and this awareness allowed her to take certain things for granted.

For somewhere in the secret rooms of her head she had known (for precisely how long, she was still unsure) that his long glances and loaded words had meant something. She knew it like she knew her own heartbeat: he felt something for her. It was the something that ensured he would always, always be kind to her, and the something that she herself was not yet sure she could honestly reciprocate. It was the something that robbed her of her breath, for she could not separate the part of it that dazzled her with its jewel-bright intensity from the part of it that terrified her. It was the something that compelled him to stay with her last night even as they both began to fall apart, for she knew he believed that they had a better chance of holding on, together. 

She knew that he was falling apart. She had seen the look on his face. Even through the rain, she would've known that look anywhere. She had seen him look that way once and only once before—on her birthday, when he recognized Sobriki's voice. 

But he was facing her now, and he met her stare with a smooth, curious gaze of his own, the oddest expression lighting the autumn-leaf brown of his eyes. 

*          *          *

He cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Hi," she said back, her voice small and tinny to her ears. 

"How are you feeling?"

"Like hell," she confessed.

"Me too." Carter stretched his arms above his head with a small grunt, his hands needling the darkness of the room. "You know, this is not exactly how I envisioned it would be."

Abby looked blank. "Envisioned _what_ would be?"

He grinned at her roguishly. "Waking up next to you."

"Very funny." She tossed a pillow at him, which he caught, then noticed the shirt he was wearing. "I see you're sporting the asshole line. That was one of Richard's favorite shirts."

"Yeah, sorry about that. I would've borrowed something from you but we don't share the same size."

"Were you playing dress up?"

"In your clothes? Nah. I wouldn't be able to fit."

"Are you saying I'm fat?" Abby asked, laughing. 

Carter's mouth dropped open. "No!" he said quickly.

"You think I'm fat."

"Absolutely not."

"You're thinking chunky."

"Well…"

"Thin-challenged."

"I prefer 'super-sized.'"

Abby made a face.

"More bang for your buck?" he suggested.

"Great, not only am I fat, but I'm a whore," she teased. 

"I, uh…"

"What time is it?" Abby yawned, letting him off the hook. 

With feigned relief, he checked his watch. "It's about ten."

"Ten?"

"Yep. At night." 

"_At night?_"

"How was your nineteen hour nap?"

"Oh my god." Abby ran a hand through her disheveled head of hair, shaking her head. "Well, that explains the industry-sized crick in my neck."

"From what Susan told me, you probably needed it."

"Not the crick."

"The sleep."

"Yeah, well." Rubbing her eyes, she stiffened as a yawn overtook her. "You talked to Susan?"

"I had to call in," he explained.

Abby's eyes widened. "Oh my god," she repeated. "Weaver is going to _kill _me."

"No, she's not."

"I was on—about five hours ago."

"Actually, Yosh was on. I called in for the both of us."

She eyed him. "People will talk."

"Like they aren't already," Carter snorted.

Abby widened her eyes but said nothing. 

"Besides," he added lightly, "Since when do you care about what people say about you?"

"Since never."

"Exactly."

A hush fell over the room. 

Abby looked at him. "Thanks. For everything. I owe you."

"Me? You don't owe me anything. You do, however, owe Yosh a new haircut."

She laughed. "He asked for that?"

Carter smiled impishly. "No, the staff did."

"I still owe you. For staying with me."

"Not really. I told Susan that you snore."

She blinked. "Do not!"

"Too," he smiled. "Loudly." Amused, he watched as a pout curved at her lips, her eyes narrowing. "Like I said, you don't owe me anything. We'll call it even."

Abby gave him a hard look. "I owe you everything."

There was an awkward, pregnant silence, and she inhaled sharply, her hands fiddling with a loose threat that unraveled along a seam at the edge of her comforter. She drew a deep breath. "Carter, I'm sorry."

He tried hard to look nonchalant. "For what?"

With an abrupt yank, Abby looked up, the thread in her hands. "For the way I acted last week. The way I've been acting all week long."

"Don't worry about it. I'm a big boy; I can take it."

"No, don't," she said suddenly, her eyes intensely clear in the swarthy cobalt of the room. She stared at him boldly. "Don't act like nothing's wrong, like nothing's been wrong…I missed you."

Surprised, Carter tore his eyes away from her and dropped his gaze, studying the pattern of vines and leaves on her bed. "I missed you too," he said, wistful. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed me. I'm sorry you had to go through—everything—alone." He paused, his words barely audible. "I'm sorry about Maggie."

There was another silence as Carter lifted his eyes again. He found her staring at him steadily, a short laugh escaping her lips as her hands smoothed the hair away from her forehead. 

"I miss her. I hadn't seen her for God knows how long, but I miss her already."

Outside he heard the rain falling, falling; tapping steadily against the flat of the windowpane, and inside the smallness of her voice filled the bedroom with its low, haunting lilt. He stared at her, sorrowful, as she drew a sharp breath and hunched forward, her legs drawn up to her chest. Her face bore the scars of her misery for the past week, her pupils so large and so black that they made her eyes look haunted and depthless. 

"She called me on my birthday. She was the only one who remembered this year." Abby smiled—a sad, sweet smile—and half-shrugged, her hair falling around her shoulders. "She was getting better. I thought she was getting better."

Carter looked up. "There's no way you could have known."

She closed her eyes briefly then opened them again, the grief plain in her eyes. "Every night for the past week I kept wondering, what was it like for her? What was it like when she died? Did she know she was killing herself? Did she know she was dying? Was she sorry? Did she—did she think of me?"

He rose from his chair and took a seat across from her. Lightly, he reached over and took her hand in his, holding it warmly, protectively. 

"She loved you," he said simply. "I know she did." 

"We, uh, we didn't have a funeral." Embarrassed, she lowered her head. "Not a real one, anyway. Nobody would've come."

"Abby…"

"My brother—he's out of the country. He had less to do with her than I did. And I didn't want to stand at her funeral alone."

"I would've come if you wanted me there."

Abby looked at him briefly. "Yeah, yeah you would've."

"Where is she buried?"

"Minnesota. It was where we grew up. It was where she said she belonged." 

"And that explains why you were gone for those two days last week," Carter muttered to himself, realization dawning on his face.

She looked up in surprise. "You noticed."

"Yeah. Yeah, I did."

"Two states in two days," Abby shrugged, an empty smile gracing her face. "It was a bitch."

"You should've told me," he said, but she wasn't listening. He peered at her, memorizing her stubborn pout, the way her hair fell to her shoulders, her dark pupils, so enormous that they seemed to swallow up her eyes. She was staring off into space, an odd light in her eyes, her voice delicately fragile in its precarious balancing act. 

"Mothers are supposed to take care of their children. All my life I've had to take care of her. And…I was tired," Abby whispered, fighting the sudden rawness in the back of her throat. "I just got tired. I couldn't deal with her anymore. I thought she was getting better. So I left her alone."

"She _was_ getting better."

"She was bi-polar." Tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her breath caught in her throat. "She had a disease, and I knew it. I knew it." 

Carter leaned forward, gripping her hand tightly. "Abby."

"And I just…let her go."

"You didn't know."

"_I was supposed to_," she choked angrily, grief and guilt compressing her chest like a vice. "I was her daughter."

"And you loved her," he interrupted softly. "It's all you could've done, and all anyone can ever do, and all we can ever expect from ourselves."

She looked away. He closed his eyes and heard the anguish in her voice, staining every syllable like blood. 

"But it wasn't enough, was it?" 

"Abby…" he began helplessly. 

She looked at him, her voice strangled, her cheeks dry. "_I _wasn't enough." 

Carter said nothing, but tightened his grip as she bowed her head again and drew deep, shuddering breaths, sucking in the damp air of the room as she held the tears in her eyes and did not let them fall. 

*          *          *

He made no movement to impose upon the narrow space of grief that was hers and only hers. Rather, he let her collect herself, hold the tears that threatened to spill over her eyes, and he listened to her breathe in the quiet. His hands laced with hers and his eyes never left her huddled form, which seemed so small in the embrace of his glance. 

She was so small. 

He had never noticed it before. In the ER she was smart and professional: the extent of her medical knowledge was impressive, she worked confidently and efficiently, and she developed an easy camaraderie with most all of her patients. She was more than a match for anyone in a verbal sparring contest, and she held her own against her peers and her superiors. She was firm but not pushy, both as a nurse and as a friend. For all the coffee and pie split between them, he had a strong suspicion that she made sure to stay one up on him. 

In other words, she was anything but the small, forlorn figure that sat on the bed in front of him. He was numbed to see how vulnerable she was.

Slowly, he became aware of the fact that she was staring at him again, her eyes boring holes into his, and her mouth turned unhappily into an agitated frown. She looked like she was mentally wrestling with herself, with a knowledge of something dangerous and burning, and after a long silence she finally opened her mouth to speak. 

"Carter…" Abby gripped his hand tightly, her voice wavering under the strain of a monumental burden. "There's something I need to tell you."

"What?" 

"You're not going to like it."

"What is it?" he whispered.

"It's about Luka."

Inwardly, she winced, for immediately his face darkened, his eyes narrowing into shadowy slits and his mouth pressing into a thin line. He paused and seemed to be collecting himself before he spoke. "What is it?" he asked again.

"It's about the night I slept with Luka."

"Forget it," Carter interrupted her. "It's not my business."

"It was an accident."

"You don't have to explain it to me."

"But I want to."

"But you don't have to," he shot back, dropping her hand. The bitterness in his voice was thinly veiled as his hand went up to his neck, working at the stiffness there. "It's not like we're…we're…"

"I was drunk," Abby blurted.

His hand dropped to his side, his face startlingly white in the shadowy blue of the room.

She swallowed. "I was drunk," she repeated, visibly uncomfortable. "I was drunk when I went to see him and I was drunk when I slept with him."

The room was quiet, the silence rising and falling like the simple melody of a symphony, and Abby felt it flow through her, around her.  Later in the solitude of her own room she would close her eyes and flinch at the memory of the look on his face, the sting so plain and so raw in his shocked expression. But now she resisted the urge to turn away and forced her eyes to stay on him, to see what she had done, to see what she was doing now—to this man, to her friend, and to the kindness he had always shown her. There was something infinitely tired about the way he now shifted in his place on the bed, in the defeated slope of his shoulders, and in the expression of his dark, burnt-wood eyes, dark like night flaming over a city, burnt like a razed house. It hurt to look at him. 

The silence broke, bursting star-like into a thousand shattered pieces of glass.

"How long?" Carter looked at her swiftly, his voice cold and unforgiving. 

"How long—what?"

"How long have you been sleeping with him?" 

"I haven't been."

"Just that one night?"

"Yes."

"The night I told you"—she heard his voice crack—"I told you I wanted you."

"Yes," she said, her voice barely audible. "That night."

"That night," he repeated frostily. 

A pause. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry," he laughed, his eyes bright and brilliant against the near-black halo circling his head. "Why would you be sorry?"

Offended, she stared at him.

"I'm the one who should be sorry," he continued flatly, his face hard. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you like Luka was."

Abby felt her body stiffen. "Carter, I didn't mean to sleep with him."

"Of course you didn't mean to."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It doesn't mean anything. Like your sleeping with Luka. It means nothing."

"Sarcasm is not one of your strong suits," Abby said icily.

"And honestly isn't one of yours. You couldn't just tell me you weren't interested in me?" he burst out. 

"Carter—"

"You had to show me?"

"It wasn't like that!"

"Then what was it like?" he exploded, his face breaking.

She looked as if he had hit her.  

Carter shook his head. He felt sick. "Goddamn, Abby, this isn't—this isn't just about Luka."

Abby closed her eyes. "Then what is this about?"

"This is about you. This is about you and what you want."

"And this isn't about you being jealous of Luka at all," she shot back sarcastically.

"No!" Angrily, he rose from her bed, his body facing away from her for a moment before he spun around again. "No," he said again, more quietly. "I don't care about Luka. I care about you. And what you're doing to yourself."

Speechless, Abby looked at him, his face flushed and his hair standing wildly on end like licks of dark fire around his face. She felt herself tumble out of bed and stand unsteadily on her feet, the defensiveness lumping in her throat. 

"I can take care of myself, Carter. I don't need you to tell me what to do."

Unthinkingly, Carter reached out to brush a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. "You shouldn't drink so much," he said wearily.

"I had one too many drinks. It happens to everyone."

"It shouldn't happen to alcoholics."

"I'm not a drunk," she shook her head, angry at the tears that unexpectedly filled her eyes. "I can take care of myself."

"Is that why you slept with Luka?" he spat, his voice trembling like a wire. "Because you figured that this was the best way you could take care of yourself?"

"My mother just died." Abby tightened her grip on her own arms and glared at him, her eyes glittering with salt and water. "It's not an excuse, but it's an explanation."

"Right," Carter said, suddenly tired. He stared at her, the silence sparkling like a lit firecracker, and he broke away, his face white. "I have to go."

She watched as he gathered his things.

"Where are you going?" she heard herself say.

"I don't know."

"I'll see you out."

She followed him out of the bedroom, her eyes never leaving his figure, and brushed by him to reach the door. Wordlessly, she fumbled with the locks and wrenched each one out of place. She threw the door open.

Under the squared arch of the doorway he hesitated, and turned around to face her. "Let me know if you need anything," he said quietly. 

"Yeah, sure," she whispered, avoiding his eye. 

She stared straight ahead until he walked through the open door and into the unlit corridor. She didn't move until she heard his footsteps retreat into the darkness, her eyes fixating on the empty space where he was standing, mere half-moments before. 

Outside the rain quickened, the low rumble of thunder ominous along the horizon. 

*          *          *

The hallway outside the door to Luka's apartment was darker than Carter remembered. But then again, he hadn't been in this hallway since the day that he and Abby got arrested for breaking and entering. Faintly amused, his mouth quirked at the memory. 

The smile disappeared quickly.

Hesitating only briefly, he raised his fist and knocked boldly on the massive door, his mouth set in a thin line and his knuckles rapping against the splintered surface. 

"Who is it?"

Carter rocked back on his heels, and he worked hard to keep his voice level. "Dr. Kovac? It's me, Dr. Carter. I was wondering if we could talk."

"Dr. Carter?"

The surprise was unmistaken in Luka's face as the door swung open. "I didn't expect you."

"I know." Carter paused. "Can I come in?"

"Sure." The other man moved out of the way, gesturing for Carter to step inside, and closed the door behind him. "Why don't you take a seat?" he suggested. "Do you want a…a beer or something? Something to drink?"

Carter plastered a smile to his face. "No, thanks. This won't take long." He glanced around. "You've got a nice place," he said lamely.

Luka smiled. "Thanks. This is your second time here, no?"

_He remembers_, Carter thought, with a wry smile. "Yeah. It wasn't as furnished the first time around."

"Now I've got a brand new fish tank."

Carter's face froze.

"I'm just kidding," Luka smiled. "Look, are you sure I can't get you anything? I've got a shift in an hour but—"

"Actually, I came here to talk about Abby."

Luka looked surprised. "Abby? What about Abby? Is she okay?" His face darkened. "Is it Brian?"

Carter struggled to maintain the tight smile on his face. "No, no Brian. Nothing like that." 

Shrugging confusedly, Luka walked over to his refrigerator. "She stopped by some time last week. Really upset about something. I was thinking that maybe it was Brian again."

He felt something inside of him snap. "She stopped by? What'd she want?"

Luka shrugged again. "I'm not sure. She was kind of drunk."

Inhaling deeply, Carter felt himself become dizzy, light-headed, and with great difficulty he pressed his palm flat against a wall, forcing himself to stay on his feet. "Kind of," he echoed.

Luka emerged from the kitchen. "So what is it you wanted to talk about, about Abby?"

In a voice that was not his, Carter spoke. "Did you bother asking her what was wrong? Or did you just skip that part and head straight for the bed?"

Several things happened at once. 

He lunged at Luka blindly, the anger in him alive and sparkling like a thrashing fuse. He drew his fist back and propelled it forward, his knuckles making solid contact with the other man's jaw. Instinctively, Luka hit him back, his fist landing powerfully against the side of Carter's face.

Both men fell to the ground.

"Carter!" Luka yelped, dodging another punch, "What are you doing?"

"What are _you_ doing?" Carter exploded, his fists knotted in Luka's shirt as he slammed the other man against the floor, heart hammering wildly in his chest. 

"I'm not," Luka hissed between tackles, "The one," he grunted, "Attacking a man in his own _home_." With a surge of energy, he pushed Carter off of him.

"No, you're the one taking advantage of a drunk woman in his own home," Carter snarled back, scrambling to his feet.

Luka's eyes flashed angrily. "Look, Carter, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you do," he rambled, the words falling out of his mouth with terrible ease, black and ugly and unforgiving, as he backed away, gasping for air. "You know exactly what I'm talking about—_who_ I'm talking about."

"This is about Abby," Luka blurted, realization dawning on his face.

"She was drunk," Carter spat, his voice icily hard, like fine shards of frost on the verge of shattering. "She came to you. You took advantage of her."

"That's not what happened."

"The hell it isn't. She would've never slept with you if she was sober."

"She's done it before."

A hot flash of light blinded him, and Carter lashed out, the ripping sensation in his chest almost unbearable as he felt something clawing at his insides, fighting to the surface like a person flaying about for air. 

Luka dodged his punch easily and backed away, eyeing him with caution. 

Dizzily, Carter raised his hand to his eyes, his vision swarming out of focus like a funhouse mirror. He swallowed again, hard, fury choking his lungs, and he found it difficult to breathe. 

"You stay away from her," he exploded. 

"I already did," Luka roared back.

He felt the room spinning beneath his feet. "What?"

"You think I slept with her."

Unable to breath, he nodded.

Luka stared at him steadily. "I didn't."

The room tilted, and everything went black.

*          *          *

Luka watched as Carter disappeared into the dark hallway, the sound of the other man's footsteps fading into silence as seamlessly as the sudden hush that fell on the room like a fine mist. He rubbed his throbbing hand and flopped into an armchair, looking up to peer into the bright blueness of the fish tank in his apartment, momentarily mesmerized by the dawdling of the tropical fish in it. With a rueful smile, he realized that this wasn't even his fish tank; this, like much of everything else he ever shared with Abby, was also Carter's.

It wasn't in his nature to be jealous. Even when he and Abby had dated, it didn't occur to him to be wary of the camaraderie that his girlfriend shared with the other man. The intimate glances, the in-jokes, the two heads, both so dark, bent close together as they chatted with the air of conspirators—it was the most natural thing in the world for them, for their friendship, for Carter and Abby. What would he gain, he reasoned, by being jealous of something that was, for them, like breathing? And what he would lose—he did not have to ask himself that, for he knew what he stood to lose if he demanded from Abby that which she could only give to Carter. He would lose what precious little he and Abby shared. 

It wasn't, Luka decided, worth it. He had dealt with too much loss in his life. So he let them be.

They were survivors, he and Abby. They both lived like they had something to lose, perhaps because they had both lost so much—she, her childhood, her marriage, her career; he, his family and his life in Croatia. That much Luka knew from holding her. She had come to him in the dark and in the dark they would stay. It seemed to suit them. It was where they made love and where they sought each other, and where he thought that he could perhaps make her happy, even if he never did in the end. The dark belonged to them and they to it, so what did it matter if the day belonged to him, to Carter, and to her, to Abby? What did it matter if it were they who belonged together in the light, like two halves of an imperfect whole, held apart by nothing more but their own limited capacity to see beyond? What did it matter?

Apparently, it mattered to him, to Carter. It mattered a lot—enough to motivate him to do something so foolish as to take on a man both stronger and taller than he, not to mention his superior at work, in that man's own home. 

He wondered if it mattered to Abby, as well, and as much. With a start, he was surprised to find that he sincerely hoped it did. 

Cradling his hand in his lap, he let him lose himself, however briefly, in the toucan-bright colors of the water and the exotic fish lounging in it, before rising to clean his apartment.

*          *          *__

Sleep would not come to her weary body, rest not to her quickened pulse. Instead, she sat in bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, and her arms circling loose around her legs, one hand clasped around a pale, thin ankle. The covers gathered in a pool around her bare feet and her hair tumbled around her shoulders as she perched a melancholic frown atop her knees. 

She closed her eyes, memories flashing across the insides of her eyelids like wind chimes. The pretty, random pieces shimmered together in an unfathomable dream, all blurred lines and midsummer's eve, the happy and the sad jumbled together in broken glass shards, sharp and gleaming and lovely. She gathered these pieces close to her chest, letting them cut her in long, lithe lines, and felt the guilt stain her like blood blooming against a white cotton shirt. Love, guilt, hatred, grief, shame, even relief—all flashed across her closed eyes in small snatches of music, and her shoulders slumped under the weight of it all, under the monumental weight of it all. 

Overwhelmed, she let her hands quest for the bottle by her bed, and almost cried aloud in relief at the familiar feeling of smooth glass greeting the hot curve of her palm. Mouth bowed in a troubled frown, she gripped the bottle tightly, her body rocking slightly in place. Then, in a sudden fit of fury, she flung it across the room, watching through a lens blurry with heat as the glass burst and the pieces exploded. . 

Raising her hand to her eyes, she felt a wave of pain ripple through her. Though her chest hitched and her eyes smarted, she could not cry, and instead she fell into a messy, dream-less sleep.

*          *          *

CREDITS: So did she or didn't she? A bit of a clue in the title of the chapter: "Amnesiac" is directly lifted from the Radiohead album of the same name, which was my musical accompaniment as I wrote this chapter. The opening quote is from the Bible. "Autumn-leaf" is a phrase coined by F. Scott Fitzgerald in the gorgeously written _The Great Gatsby_. 


	7. Long Day's Journey

TITLE: Through the Door (7/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown." (Crappy season finale? What crappy season finale?)

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission, and notify when archived. Thanks!

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Chapter Six is dedicated to my returning reviewers: Kate, Ceri, Em, and Cat. I appreciate it when readers take the time to review, but I'm really _very_ humbled when readers keep on coming back to let me know how I'm doing. So, all-you-can-eat-chocolate-bars to you guys, and also other assorted sweets to new reviewers Lyssa, Dana, Theresa, Surlykins, Charlotte, and JD. Holy Schmuck, I'm still having trouble scraping my jaw off the ground after reading all your generous compliments—so generous, in fact, that the muse repented for its leave of absence last time and decided to make it up to me by bringing home this monstrously long chapter one week ahead of schedule. I'm stunned, I'm dazed, and I'd like to thank the Academy! *weeps* ^_^ Eternal thanks to the Best Hosts Ever: Neoxer (of The Lounge fame) and pix (of Carter 'n Abby fame). Finally, please review! Hit me at socksless@hotmail.com or drop a review at ff.net under my pseudonym, and you too can get your own personal shoutout in my A/N. ^_-

SPECIAL ADDENDUM TO INORDINATELY LONG A/N: To sequel or not to sequel? (That is the question.) Although it basically depends on whether Carter and Abby will let me take them out for a second spin ^_^, I'd also like to read your thoughts on the matter. Rock the vote: email me your two cents. 

SPECIAL ADDENDUM FOR FANFICTION.NET READERS: If you've been reading _Through the Door_ on FanFiction.net, you may be reading an incomplete version. First, I just discovered that Chapter One: River Going Through was actually missing and instead Chapter Two: Night Swimming was uploaded in its place. Second, the first post of Chapter Five was incomplete. Two more scenes have been added to the end of the chapter, which leads right into the opening of Chapter Six. Both mistakes have been corrected. I recommend going back and reading the missing parts if you haven't already because both parts are integral to the growth of characters and their relationships in this story.

SUMMARY: A day in the life of Abby Lockhart, featuring some familiar ER clichés to make this a Very Special Episode (snerk). Also stars Carter, Susan, Luka, and Weaver; with cameos by Randi and Haleh; and Yosh gets named-dropped somewhere. 

CHAPTER SIX

Long Day's Journey

_Porcelain  
Are you wasting away in your skin  
Are you missing the love of your kin  
Drifting and floating and fading away_

*          *          *

SHE DREAMED ONLY IN COLOR: in the muted, somber tones of a faded watercolor long after people had begun to overlook the work, like forgotten petals left to die between yellowed pages. Never did these colors have a distinct shape or form—rather, they remained nebulous, formless things, warm and melting like the sunlight that broke through her window and diffused along the plane of her skin.

Drowsily, she brought a hand up to shield her eyes from the rays of light that fell upon her face. She felt herself waking, consciousness bobbing to the surface like a buoy, and her eyelids fluttered open as a hand reached out only to grasp a fistful of sheets.

"Carter?" she murmured, half-asleep.

She sat up and immediately swore as her head began to pound in a series of quick, dull throbs. _Son of a bitch_, she cursed to herself. _Damn hangovers._ Automatically, her eyes searched for the half-empty glass she knew would be near and reflexively, she reached for it.

Only, it was not there.

Instead, small circles of color danced along her skin like a miniature aurora. Her eyes followed the path of their light to the source, a glittering beach of broken glass on the floor surrounding her bed. Sunbeams caught on the individual pieces of glass and broke, splitting into a riot of color—languorous arcs kissing the curve of her wrists, pale rainbows streaking along her bare arms. 

She smiled at their prism-like beauty. Their colors reminded her of the flowers she had so loved as a child. When she was younger, her mother always kept flowers in their kitchen; flowers that had been plucked from their yard and arranged in pretty bouquets in old handmade vases. Her family was never well off and Maggie always said that flowers reminded you that things like that didn't really matter, so long as you were alive and healthy and together. 

Alive, they were; healthy and together, most decidedly not.

The first time that Maggie hit her, she was not hurt very badly. She had never been hurt very badly, actually. Her mother was far too irrational during her unexpected bursts of anger to ever inflict any serious physical damage upon her children. Still, nightmares of this first time plagued Abby. In her head she could still see the vivid red of the blood washing from her hands, the luminously white basin of the sink, and the deep blue of the broken vase shards, like puzzle pieces of a beautiful spring sky.

And she found that she could not bring herself to stomach the sight of her mother's flowers again. The tulips that had rested in that vase were unceremoniously dumped into the trash along with every arrangement of blossoms that Maggie tried to place in their house thereafter. As far as Abby was concerned, the pretty bouquets no longer had a place in their home. She didn't need a constant reminder of everything her family wasn't: alive, healthy, or together.

When she became older, these flowers had no place in her home either, although she had learned by then to love the look and feel of old, dried flowers. Their colors dull and their scent faded, she found that they belonged to her in a dark, wistful way that the bright coquettish blooms could not. So she kept them around, more as a reminder of what she did have than what she didn't. 

Now, a bouquet of these dried flowers lay strewn on the floor; she had knocked them over along with their vase when she flung her glass wayward last night. Their stems looked awkward and crooked, like old gnarled pieces of driftwood rotting amidst a beach of broken glass, and their petals scattered like shells, broken and washed out by the endless rolling of the tide. With a cold lurch in her stomach, she realized that these were Carter's flowers—the ones he had dropped in disgust when he found out that she was drinking again. 

She stared at them, at this reminder of what belonged to her and what never could, and sat quietly for several moments, composing herself. 

*          *          *

"Hey stranger." Susan looked up from her magazine and smiled.

"Hey." Carter opened his locker with a ruthless yank, shrugging on his white coat and placing a stethoscope around his neck. "How was your shift?"

"Okay, give or take your random loony." She yawned, and checked her watch. "I'm off. I was just waiting for you to get in."

"You should be at home, sleeping."

"In a bit. How was your night?"

"Almost wished I had worked the night shift instead."

"That bad?"

"Calling it 'bad' would be an understatement." 

"Ouch."

"Yeah," Carter sighed. He closed his locker and gave the dial a spin.

Susan looked at him carefully, a cup of coffee at her lips and a pair of curious eyes peeking over the brim. "So you told her."

"Told who what?" he said, staring at his locker.

"You know."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes. "That I'm having your baby," she retorted, exasperated. 

Disinterested, "Are you?"

"Yes. Immaculate conception."

"Right."

"Jesus, Carter."

"Actually, call me God."

"_Carter_." 

"What?" He turned around to face her.

Susan spoke slowly, enunciating each word as if she were talking to a child, and not a very bright child at that. "You told Abby how you feel about her."

"None of your business."

"Oh my god." She raised her eyebrows. "She shot you down."

He made some kind of muffled, indecipherable sound.

"You should talk to her again."

"Why should I?" 

"You know Abby."

"I thought I did."

Susan raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugged his shoulders elegantly. "I don't know."

Carefully, she leaned back in her chair, cradling her cup in her hands. "Carter, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"God, talking to you is like—"

"Talking to a brick wall?" he supplied.

"I was going to say, talking to Abby."

"No." Carter let out a short, bitter laugh. "Abby talks a lot, actually, when she's got something to say."

"So something is wrong," Susan confirmed with a tilt of her head. He watched as she checked her watch and gathered her things, rising from her chair. "I'm off. Call me if you need to talk."

She brushed by him. 

"Susan?" he blurted.

"Yeah?" She stopped, her hand pushing gently against the door. 

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"Okay, then," he said patiently, "Can I ask you something else?"

"Why not," she muttered, tucking an errand piece of hair behind her ear. "It's not like I haven't slept for the past twenty-four hours."

"Why did we break up?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Must I humor you, Carter? Must I?"

"I know you say it's Abby, but—"

"But?"

"Am I too nice?"

"What?"

"Am I a push over?"

"Where is this coming from?"

"Well?"

Shaking her head, Susan walked forward and placed her hand on his arm. "Carter, you're a nice guy. It's a good thing. It's not why we broke up."

Carter shook his head. "Nice guys finish last, right?" 

"What makes you say that?" She looked at him appraisingly, securing her bag over her shoulder.

"Nothing," they said together.

"You're impossible," she laughed.

"Oh, so I'm nice _and_ impossible." 

"You're the nice one, I'm the sarcastic one, it's the way things work."

"Why do I have to be the nice one again?" he whined jokingly as they stepped out of the lounge together.

"Because Luka's the heartthrob," Susan quipped. 

"You got that right." Randi snapped her gum as they walked by the front desk.

"How could I forget." Carter rolled his eyes. 

"Do you want to be the heartthrob?" Susan raised an eyebrow. "I think if we talk to Luka, he'd be more than happy to—"

"I don't want to talk about Luka." Abruptly, he cut her off, the muscle in his jaw clenching.

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Abby, would it?"

"No, of course not," he said, a little too quickly.

"Uh huh." Susan looked at him skeptically. "And Weaver's running first place in the staff popularity contest. Anyway, this is my stop." She gestured at the double doors. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." He raised his hand to wave.

"Oh, and Carter?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened to your jaw?"

*          *          *

It was noon, and it was Africa-hot. Abby quickened her paces as she approached the ER, smiling appreciatively as the crisp coolness of the air conditioning hit her skin. She slowed her paces, indulging in the wonders of climate control, and pulled her hair back in a neat ponytail as she circled the front desk.

"Abby, I'd like to talk to you when you get a moment," Kerry Weaver said, glancing over the rim of her glasses. She sat perched on a stool behind the front desk, a stack of files in front of her, looking every bit the authority figure. 

"I haven't even clocked in yet," was her automatic response as she tried to flee.

"Great, then, you have a moment."

Abby stopped in her tracks and inwardly sighed.

"I wanted to talk to you about your recent absences from work," Dr. Weaver began.

"I'm sorry about missing work yesterday," she interrupted.

"I understand Yosh filled in."

"Yeah, I know. I owe him a haircut."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Anyway," Dr. Weaver lowered her voice so only Abby could hear what she was saying, "I know your mother passed away early last week. I understand what a difficult time this can be and I am more than happy to accommodate any time off you feel you need to take—but only if you let me know ahead of time."

Abby nodded.

"Otherwise, I can't have you and Dr. Carter making up your hours as you go along, trading shifts with others. Too much time goes into the making of the ER schedule for that."

Raising her eyebrows, "Dr. Carter?"

"If you could pass the message along," Dr. Weaver said, without looking up from her work. 

"I understand. It won't happen again." 

She touched Abby's sleeve lightly, peering into her face. "Are you okay with being back so soon?"

Abby felt herself force a smile, and tried very hard to ignore the headache that blossomed behind her eyes. "I am. I mean, I'm fine, Dr. Weaver. Thanks." Exhaling, she turned around again.

"Hey Abby," Luka greeted her, nearly bumping into her. 

"We've got to stop meeting like this," she replied under her breath.

"Dr. Kovac, why don't you and Abby take the patient in curtain area one," Kerry called after their retreating figures.

Luka followed Abby's quick steps. "I heard you missed work last night. Are you feeling okay?"

"Twenty-four hour bug."

"You don't look that great."

"Thanks."

"Are you still feeling sick?"

"No, I'm better."

"Okay." He hesitated. "If you have time later, I was wondering if we could talk. It's important."

"Well, I'm busy right now," Abby shrugged, pushing the curtain open to reveal a bored teenage girl with red hair that fell to her waist. "Hi, I'm Abby. What seems to be the problem?"

The girl arched an eyebrow. "Who are you?" 

"I'm a nurse."

"Maybe later, then when you have time," Luka persisted.

"Is this your boyfriend?" The girl snapped her gum.

"No." Abby planted a perfunctory smile on her face. "This is Dr. Kovac."

"Hi," he said warmly.

"You're cute," she replied approvingly, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

Abby rolled her eyes. 

Luka smiled. "What can we do for you, Miss, uh…"

"Drue," she supplied. "Nancy Drue. D-R-U-E, not D-R-E-W, like that girl detective."

The reference seemed lost on Luka. "Okay then, Nancy, what can we do for you today?" he said pleasantly. 

Gingerly, Nancy pulled a gym bag out from below her dangling feet. "I'm not sure what to do with this," she admitted, looking embarrassed. "I just got it. It was kind of an accident."

"What is it?" Abby asked, not looking up from her clipboard.

"It's my baby."

*          *          *

"Why am I in a room again?"

"Dr. Kovac would like to run some tests on you to make sure you're okay." Abby handed the girl a hospital gown. "I need you to put this on." 

Nancy stared at her. Abby stared back.

"Some privacy?"

Rolling her eyes, Abby faced the wall and didn't turn around again until the girl cleared her throat. "All right. Go ahead and take a seat on the bed. Can you hold out your wrist for me?"

"I don't know," she said plaintively, "Can I?"

Abby gave her a look.

Nancy snapped her gum and relented, flopping onto the clean sheets. "You're no fun."

"And you act like you're twelve. How old are you again?"

"Eighteen."

Fastening the identification bracelet, Abby looked at her skeptically. "Right. And I'm loads of fun."

The girl sighed. "Okay, fourteen."

Abby's eyebrows shot up. "Fourteen?"

"How old are you?"

"Older than fourteen," she said evasively, hooking the girl up to a monitor. "This is to regulate your breathing."

"You look thirty," Nancy mused. "No wait—twenty-eight."

"Are you trying to get on my good side?"

"Maybe. Is there food? I'm starving."

Laughing, Abby scribbled something on her chart. "I'll try and see if I can steal something from the cafeteria. In the meantime, is there anyone I can call? Your mother…"

A short, sharp laugh escaped Nancy's lips. "No, not my mother."

Abby gave her a half-smile. "Well, we need to call someone. You're fourteen."

"There's no one." Abruptly, Nancy looked away. "Is my baby okay?"

"Well," she began slowly, "Right now they're keeping her in the NICU. She's in critical condition, but she's stable. You can ask Dr. Kovac when he sees you; he should know more."

The girl looked down, playing with a loose strand of her long, red hair that gleamed copper and lovely in the late afternoon sunshine that flooded the room. "Is she…is she going to be okay?"

Abby tried hard to look neutral. "It's too early to tell. I can go get Dr. Kovac now if you want to talk to him."

"Okay." Nancy hesitated as she turned away to walk out of the room. "Hey, do you have a smoke or something?"

"Smoking's bad for you," Abby said, without turning around.

*          *          *

"Her baby was in where?" 

"A gym bag," Abby sighed, cleaning up the trauma room after their latest patient crashed. She stuffed a pair of bloody gloves into a large plastic bag. "She was carrying her around in a gym bag."

Carter gave her a sympathetic glance, sliding in drawers and moving trays back into place. 

"You know, I was a lot like her when I was that age," she mused.

"Except for that teenage pregnancy thing."

"Yeah, except for that. But the rest of it…" Sweeping her hair off her face, she trailed off and stood up straight, catching his eye. "Thanks. You don't have to help me clean up this place. It's not your job."

"I know." He shrugged, and tore off his scrubs. He watched her carefully as she went around the room and methodically cleaned it of its waste, and frowned when he saw her close her eyes, her hand going to her head momentarily. "You okay?"

Abby gave him a long, sloe-eyed glance. "I'm fine."

"It's just that you seem a little…"

"Tired?" she suggested.

"I was going to say 'distant,' but yeah, tired works."

"Funny," she mumbled under her breath, "I could say the same about you."

Clumsily, Carter shrugged. "Things are weird."

"When are they not?"

"They've been unusually weird these last several weeks," he clarified.

"Are you angry with me?"

"You know," Carter deflected her question, "A wise man once told me that time solves most things."

Abby snorted.

"And what time can't solve, you have to solve yourself, which isn't too much to ask."

She paused, her hand clutching the plastic bag, and tilted her head thoughtfully. "Who's the wise guy?"

"Remember Icicle Andy?"

The bag dropped from her hands. 

"No way."

"Way," Carter replied seriously. 

"Really?"

"Nah. I'm joshing you."

"Who says 'joshing' nowadays?"

"Chief Residents."

"Chief Resident," Abby said pointedly. "Singular." 

"Quality, not quantity."

"You're awfully glib," she laughed.

He shrugged. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No, nothing wrong. Just…unexpected, I guess."

Carter stopped to face her. "If you're asking me whether I'm angry at you, I'm not. I'm not angry with you, and I'm not upset. I'm just…disappointed, I guess."

Abby's face froze, all traces of a smile vanished from it. 

_Disappointed_, her mind echoed.

"Well, I didn't ask, did I?" she said curtly. 

*          *          *

Carter stiff-armed his way into the lounge, exasperation clearly written onto his face as he made his way with bone-aching slowness to the refrigerator. Glaring into it, he pulled out a can of soda and dropped it on the table, flopping into a chair and staring sullenly off into space as the door to the lounge opened.

"Abby, I'm not really up to—" Abruptly, he cut himself off. "Luka. Hi. I thought you were someone else," he finished lamely.

"She's difficult, isn't she?" Luka greeted him. 

"Understatement of the year," Carter exhaled. 

"How's your jaw?"

"It's doing okay. A little discoloring, but nothing big."

"Sorry about that," Luka apologized. "I didn't mean to hit you."

"Sure you did." Carter smiled easily. "Just like I meant to hit you. I think I'm the one who owes you an apology." He moved aside and gestured for the other man to sit down, sliding the soda across the table. "You look thirsty. Have a drink."

"You sure?"

"Be my guest."

"Thanks," Luka said gratefully. He held the drink to his forehead and exhaled. "It's hot today."

"Like every day," Carter replied politely. "How's your jaw doing?"

Luka smiled. "Doesn't hurt at all."

He paused, and tilted his head slightly. "Should I take that as an insult to my manhood?"

"Nah, just to your fighting skills."

"Can't say I've had a chance to work on those a lot."

"Well, it helps if you grow up in a war-torn country," he joked.

Carter shook his head and smiled, the grin fading away as he cleared his throat. "I want to apologize for last night."

"Forget about it."

"No," he persisted, slowly, firmly. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions I shouldn't have."

"You didn't jump to any conclusions. Abby gave them to you."

Shrugging, he felt his throat close a little. "Still no excuse."

"No harm done," Luka said, his can of soda hovering near his lips.

"And I wanted to thank you," Carter continued haltingly. "We both know that this isn't easy for me to say but—thank you. Thank you for taking care of her."

"I was lucky I found her." Luka smiled ruefully. "Really, really lucky."

"She was lucky," Carter admitted, looking the other man in the eye. "She was lucky that night, and she's lucky now to have you as a friend."

"At least someone's thankful," he joked. "She still won't talk to me."

"Yes, well, she thinks she slept with you. I think she's embarrassed." 

"It's not like we haven't slept together before."

"You were dating, then," Carter rolled his eyes. "You're not dating now."

_Thank God for that._

"It was a joke, Carter."

He glanced at Luka, and cracked a smile. "When are you going to tell her?"

"Whenever I can corner her," Luka sighed. "She's hard to catch."

_You have no idea._

"Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the drink."

"No problem."

Carter frowned, deep in thought, as the other man made his way to the exit.

"Luka?"

The other man turned around. "Yes?"

"Last night…when I first came to your door…why did you lie to me about Abby coming to your apartment? Why didn't you just tell me you found her in a bar?"

Luka paused a moment before answering. "I don't know," he said finally. "I guess…I guess I just wanted her to choose me for once."

The door swung open, and Carter was left alone in the lounge with his thoughts.

*          *          *

"We need a little help here!"

The doors to the ER burst open, several paramedics rushing in along with two gurneys. 

"Where's Dr. Carter?" Dr. Weaver barked, hobbling along with the first gurney. "Abby—get over here."

"I've got this one, Kerry," Luka called, running up along the body and shepherding it into trauma one. Dr. Weaver nodded and rushed back to treat the second victim. 

"Two GSWs," the paramedic said, breathless. "Patient's name is Nell Fletcher. Shot by her husband, Max Fletcher, who's on the gurney behind her."

Luka glanced at Abby, who looked away. Sighing, he turned his attention to the body and sucked in his breath. "Oh, God," he muttered, before raising his voice to a shout. "Somebody get Corday down from the OR!"

"Where's Dr. Carter?"

"Somebody get Corday."

"All right, on my count, move her. One…two…three."

"What do we have?" Carter rushed into the trauma room, yanking scrubs over his shirt.

Abby rattled off the bullet. "Nell Fletcher, age thirty six, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and to the heart." 

"BP?"

"90/60, pulse 92."

"Jesus Christ, where's her hand?"

"The husband had a knife," the paramedic added grimly.

"Husband?" Carter repeated incredulously.

Abby looked disgusted. "He did a pretty thorough job on his wife."

"Where's her hand?"

With a grunt, she pulled something from beneath the patient. "I think I found it," she said, a wave of nausea hitting her at the sight of the bloody appendage. 

Carter noticed her expression right away. "You okay?"

She nodded.

"We need to intubate," Luka said, his hands working furiously above the bleeding chest of the patient.

"32 French."

"Somebody put the hand on ice until Corday gets here."

"Where is Corday?"

"All right, bag her."

Abby held her breath, a flurry of activity buzzing around the room.

"_Abby_," Luka said sharply.

"I said I'm _fine_," Abby spat back loudly, her hands a blur as she worked to stop the bleeding.

Carter dared to exchange glances with the other man. They looked at each other and said nothing.

Abby blinked, completely missing the exchange. The room seemed to be moving in slow motion. Vaguely, she heard the machines screaming and she heard the frantic voices; she saw Carter turn his head toward her, and say something. Her vision trembled, a small pinprick of light burning along her irises, and she shook her head vigorously, unable to hear what he was saying to her. 

The doors flew open. She spun around. Dr. Corday charged into the room, moving as if underwater, her motions sluggish and exaggerated. 

Then a voice cut through the dream.

"We need to get this woman up to the OR."

Faintly, she heard the gurney rolled out of the trauma room and she felt herself step back, her hands questing for the wall, for something to lean against. She snapped the goggles off her face and let them fall to the floor. 

Suddenly, Carter's face filled her field of vision. "Abby?"

"I said I'm fine," she muttered, before she blacked out.

*          *          *__

"I'm fine, Carter."

"Fine people don't faint in trauma rooms," Carter replied, dabbing at a bleeding cut near her eye. He wrinkled his forehead in concentration, his face near to hers as he cleaned the wound and began to place stitches in the gash.

"I just got a little dizzy," Abby protested weakly.

A pause. "You looked more than a little dizzy. Did you get enough sleep last night?"

"You mean, after you stormed out of my apartment? Yes, yes I did."

"I did not _storm_ out of your apartment."

Abby snorted.

"Careful," he admonished her. "Don't move."

"I won't breathe," she promised, her heart beating strangely fast as he hovered near her face, his eyes just inches from hers. She stared at him, her thoughts moving of their own will to a Very Bad Place, imagining all sorts of dramatic and rather implausible scenarios more fitting to a daytime soap than a busy ER; with an effort, she forced herself to stop, blushing furiously. 

He frowned. "What's that sound?"

"What sound?" she blurted.

He stopped for a moment, then shook his head and exhaled, his breath caressing her cheek. "Nothing. I thought I heard—a squeak, or something." He looked at her closely. "Do you have a fever? You look a little flushed."

"The weather," Abby explained feebly. "It's hot."

"It's cool in here."

"Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"Maybe."

The room was eerily quiet, and Abby lowered her voice to match its hushed, hallowed stillness. "Are you busy after your shift today?"

Carter shrugged noncommittally. 

She fiddled with her sleeve. "Maybe we could get some coffee and pie, and talk?"

He hesitated before answering. "I think I'm busy." 

Abby bit her lip, struggling to keep her face impassive. "Okay, some other time, then."

"Some other time," he echoed.

They sat in silence as she fidgeted with his sleeve and he focused on stitching her cut.

"I'm sorry about snapping at you earlier today."

"It's okay."

"I just didn't like the idea."

"Of what?"

She paused. "You being disappointed in me." 

Her eyes darted away. Carter said nothing.

Abby cleared her throat, forcing herself to be cheerful. "There better not be a scar."

"Wouldn't dream of it." With great care, he placed in the last stitch. "Done," he declared. "Good as new." 

He smiled at her, gently, and against her will she felt her cheeks redden again. Swallowing, she looked up at him. "Thanks."

"Anytime." He started to rise out of his seat.

"Carter—"

Abby caught at his sleeve and he sat back down, his face dangerously close to hers. Blinking, she could almost hear him breathe; hear the soft inhale and exhale of every draw of breath, see the barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest beneath the shirt and coat he wore. Wordlessly, she stared at him, her eyes searching his, and her pulse began to race alarmingly fast as she felt herself take grasp of something and—and _know_. 

"Carter," she exhaled, realization dawning on her face and in her voice, "I think—"

The door to the exam room opened. Luka popped his head in. "Abby—when you get a moment, can I talk to you?"

Immediately, he pulled away from her, busying himself with the thread. 

"Is it about a patient?" she asked, a feeling of frustration welling unreasonably inside of her. 

Luka glanced at Carter. "No, it's personal."

"Carter's still putting in some stitches," she lied deliberately. "I'm afraid it'll have to wait."

Luka looked from Carter to Abby, pressing his lips in a line. "Later, then. I'll find you."

"I'm sure you will," Abby said under her breath as he closed the door.

"He seems awfully persistent." Carter observed off-handedly.

"Like the plague," she shot back, grimacing at the throbbing that began to beat again behind her eyes.

He shrugged. "You're welcome."

"What?" she said distractedly. 

"You're welcome. For bailing you out there." He snapped his gloves off. "Not that I'm going to do it again. Maybe you should try listening to what he has to say."

Taken aback, she stared at him as he exited the room.  

*          *          *

The sun was setting.

A collective sigh could almost be heard from the city as its people welcomed a respite from the oppressive heat. The sun took its dying breaths, its fingers stretching across the land in long, bold rays of light, gilding streets with the glare from its light and making silhouettes out of faces. It slanted through the window in the small room, leaking between the blinds and striping the room and its slumbering inhabitant in bars of pale gold. It set the red hair on her head aflame, like a ruby held up to firelight, and lighted the few freckles that dotted her face, golden and sun-kissed.

Abby folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the door, watching with a curious kind of protectiveness as the girl in the bed slept, her hair fanned out on the pillow behind her and the vulnerability rather evident in her young face. But even in her sleep, her mouth was puckered in a determined line, her chin set almost in defiance.

Abby smiled. She knew that look well.

Eventually, the girl's eyes fluttered open and she became aware of another presence in the room. "Hey."

"Hi Nancy." Abby approached the girl. "I have to check some of your vitals. Can you sit up for me?"

"Maybe," Nancy yawned, struggling to sit up in bed. She cocked her head. "Is she okay?"

"Your baby?"

"Yeah."

"Still in the same condition."

"No news is good news, right?" 

"Spoken like a true diplomat," Abby smiled.

"I wonder what I'll name her," she mused. "What's your name again?"

"Abby."

"Nah."

Abby laughed. "Well, thanks."

"No offense."

"None taken."

Nancy fell silent as Abby checked her respiratory and heart rates, jotting down notes on her chart. "So how long have you worked here?" she finally asked, absently winding a curl of her hair around her finger.

"Several years, now."

"Did you and Dr. Kovac have a messy breakup?"

She raised an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"Stuff," she shrugged in return.

"Stuff?" Abby queried. "What kind of stuff?"

"Like the way you're a complete bitch to him."

"I am not," Abby huffed, "A complete bitch to him."

"Are too."

"Not." She groaned. "Oh my god, I can't believe I'm having this conversation with you."

"Why don't you like him? He's pretty cute."

"He is," Abby agreed. "But looks aren't everything."

"There must be another guy," Nancy declared.

"What?"

"Another cute guy."

Abby rolled her eyes.

The door to the room opened. Haleh came in, handing Abby a sheet. "Tox screen came back."

"Thanks Haleh," Abby said absently, her eyes scanning the paper and her mouth settling into a frown. "Do you think you could get Dr. Kovac in here?"

"Sure thing," Haleh replied before disappearing again.

"Your tox screen came back positive for alcohol." Abby looked at the girl.

"Hey, I took a drink after I had the kid," Nancy retorted defensively.

"That's a relief. Did you drink while you were pregnant?"

"A little," she admitted, sweeping her long hair off her face. "At the beginning."

"You decided to drink when you were pregnant?"

"Well, I didn't know I was pregnant for awhile," the girl said defensively. 

"The bulging stomach wasn't an indicator?" Abby put down the chart.

"Nah, I stayed pretty flat. But after I found out I was pregnant, I stopped."

"Oh yeah, that's a big help to your baby."

"Have you ever been pregnant?" the girl shot back.

"Once," Abby said simply.

"Boy or girl?"

Abby hesitated, looking away briefly. "I don't know."

"You aborted it."

"You've got a lot of questions."

"I'm young, what can I say," the girl shrugged, pulling up the blanket with her thin hands. "Was it hard?"

"Of course it was hard." Abby folded her arms across her chest. "Do you have any other questions?"

Idly, the girl played with the long hair that ran like red rivers on each side of her face. "Can I tell you what happened?"

She nodded.

"I went to a party, I got drunk, I got laid. And I got pregnant."

Abby felt her mouth go dry. "How did you know it happened at that party?"

Nancy shifted in her bed. "I've only had sex once, I think."

"You think?"

"I don't remember much. Anyway," she continued, picking at the strands of hair, "I didn't know for awhile."

"What about your period?"

"It's irregular."

"For six months?"

"I was hoping," Nancy said, a little defensively. "I'm not the only girl who hopes to skip her period for six months."

Despite herself, Abby laughed. "Okay."

"But I did stop, when I found out. I took that drink after I had the baby, I swear to God."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd you need a drink?"

Nancy shrugged. "Habit. My mom drinks."

The door opened. Luka walked in.

"Abby," he nodded. "Do you mind if I talk to Nancy alone?"

She looked at the girl, who avoided her glance. "Sure."

*          *          *

Abby stared through the small square of glass and into the room, noticing the stubborn and proud way the girl held her chin, her eyes dark and defiant. It could've been her, she reflected, save the bright red hair. She watched as Luka spoke to her, his voice soft and full of feeling, she was sure, and she watched as the girl ducked her head, her eyes filling up with tears.

Sighing, she looked away. 

"Abby, I need you in curtain area two," Dr. Weaver said, with a tilt of her head. "Flu shot, then discharge."

Luka emerged from the room. "Can we talk?" he said quietly, staring at Abby. 

"Got a patient," Abby replied, holding up the chart Dr. Weaver handed to her. She busied herself with it and walked away quickly, barely aware as she brushed someone's arm. "Sorry," she said automatically.

"It's okay."

She looked up to see Carter standing there, apparently engaged in conversation with another doctor. Tall, with a gloss of spun-gold hair pulled back in a clip, the woman smiled politely at her.

"How's the girl doing?" he inquired.

Tiredly, "What girl?"

"The girl with the baby in a gym bag?"

"Oh." Abby paused. "I don't know."

They stood around awkwardly, eyeing each other, until Carter broke the ice. "Oh, Abby, meet Dr. Weston. She's here from Northwestern as a kind of 'exchange student' in that new program we've got going with them."

"Phil," the woman smiled. "Please, call me Phil."

"Phil?"

"Short for Phyllis," she explained.

Abby smiled weakly. "I'm Abby, Abby Lockhart. I'm a nurse in the ER." She shook her hand. "I've, uh, I've got a patient. Nice meeting you, Phil." She paused. "I'll see you around, Carter."

"Sure thing," he smiled.

"Nice meeting you," Phil echoed.

"Is your head feeling better?" Carter called after her.

"I'm fine," she replied under her breath.

*          *          *

Moonlight cascaded through her windows, falling onto her shoulders like a soft blanket. She sighed, letting her head fall back against her couch, and felt a wetness pricking against the back of her eyes. Reflexively, she closed her eyes against the wetness and against the light, tightening her hold on the glass, which was warm and smooth in her hands. 

The girl's baby had died. Abby wasn't surprised given the absence of prenatal care and the girl's drinking early in the pregnancy. But the girl had been shocked. She had barely looked at Abby as she stuffed all her things into the gym bag she had brought with her and yanked on her clothes. Mostly unresponsive, the only time she said something to Abby was when she asked for a cigarette. 

Unsurprisingly, she had disappeared by the time Social Services arrived. 

The day blurred across her vision like a grotesque parade of images, the colors painfully electric and the shapes burning onto her eyes like a hot light. She saw the girl and the baby in the gym bag, the victim they had failed to save, the woman on the table and her husband in the next room. She saw herself fainting, Luka's anxious face before hers, then Carter's, full of a kind of exasperated tenderness—and, of course, Maggie. She saw Maggie, just as she had seen her every night for the past week; seen the shape of her face, heard the color of her voice. 

Drumming her fingers along the curved surface of the glass, she rose from her seat on the couch and punched the buttons on her answering machine. Three messages. Idly, she skipped the first message (from a telemarketer), entranced by the way the light from her window skated along the rim of her glass and wavered across the surface of the tawny liquid inside. 

"Hey Abby, it's Carter." A pause. "I'm sorry if I was short with you today…I guess I just have a lot on my mind…but that's no excuse. Anyway, I'd love to take you up on that offer for coffee and pie, if it's still standing." Another pause. "I hope everything worked out with that girl who brought in her baby."

Playing with the light upon the glass, she skipped forward to the last message. 

"Abby? It's Luka. I'm sorry about bothering you again, but we really need to talk. It's kind of urgent so…anyway, give me a call when you can." A pause. "It's about last week. It's not what you think."

She heard the high-pitched beep signaling the end of the message. Deliberately, she placed her glass down on a surface, deleted her messages, and picked up the phone.

*          *          *

CREDITS: The title of the chapter is borrowed from the title of an episode in Season One of ER. Abby's harrowing day ends up taking her to the proverbial "two roads diverged in yellow wood," so I thought that this title was particularly apt. The quotes prefacing the chapter are borrowed from the song "Porcelain" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers; it was playing in the background as I wrote some scenes for this chapter and I thought the lyrics described my Abby very well. Devoted followers of AL/MT will recognize the line "I haven't even clocked in yet" as being lifted from her mouth in "Beyond Repair," as this chapter is my little homage to the episode. The little piece of wisdom Carter shares with Abby ("Time solves most things…") is borrowed from my favorite author, Haruki Murakami, and his novel _Dance Dance Dance_. Finally, the Moment in the suture room in which Carter plays doctor to Abby is brought to you by a similar moment that Carter had with Lucy some years ago, except she was playing doctor and he had nasty hair and their Moment ended a lot differently. ^_- 


	8. The Darkest Hour

TITLE: Through the Door (8/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult themes and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown."

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Six: Dana, JD, Cat, Ceri, CorruptCarbyChickie, Cristallo, Em, Songbird, Jennie, and Charlotte. I know I keep saying this, but I mean it when I say that your reviews are so very appreciated—you guys rock my socks! Speaking of socks and rocking them, thanks also to Neoxer for being a splenderific host. As an aside, I now have a fanfic journal at www.livejournal.com/~cmidori if you're interested in things like outtakes, teasers, and my various thoughts on the story. Finally, I've waited a long, long time to get to this point in the story. ^_^ So I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it, and I would love to hear your thoughts on the piece.

SUMMARY: An unexpected moment followed by an unexpected revelation; a.k.a. The One In Which the Shit Hits the Fan. (As a gentle reminder, this fic is rated R for strong language.)

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Darkest Hour

_what a beautiful piece of heartache this has all turned out to be_

_*          *          *_

ABBY OPENED HER EYES, lids laden with sleep, and peeked out from behind the messy ringlets that fell over her face like a shade. The moon cast weightless shadows upon the canvas of her skin, liquid rivers of night spilling like water into the curves and valleys of her body, and from someplace beyond the darkness she could dimly perceive a muffled thudding, incessant and insistent. 

Her body groaned in resistance. But the thudding continued—louder this time and steady as a metronome—and roused her out of her half-sleep. Reluctantly, she shook off the last vestiges of her slumber and sat up, the room suddenly tilting like a see-saw. 

Awkward hands quested the firm curve of the sofa. Something far more solid, and plastic, greeted her fingertips instead. Her hand closed around the object and with a jerk, she tugged it free from its place between the couch cushions.

She stared at it, bleary-eyed. 

The knocking continued.

_Shit, Abby sighed to herself, her groggy head putting two and two together. _

"I'm coming," she called over her shoulder as she proceeded to shove a glass and its accompanying bottle out of sight. The person at the door knocked harder. "I'm _coming_," she repeated, more forcefully, running frantic fingers through her hair and sliding the strap of her camisole back in place.

Still, the knocking grew louder.

"I _said _I'm _coming_," she yelled, throwing the door open.

Carter froze, his fist in the air. "Uh," he squawked. "Hi." 

Abby mumbled something incoherent in return.

He glanced at her rumpled form. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No, not really." She stifled a yawn. "I was just napping."

"I brought food." He lifted the bag he was carrying. "It's not coffee and pie, but I thought you'd want something more substantial."

"And nothing says substantial like take-out Chinese," she quipped, gazing appreciatively at the bag and moving aside to let him in. "I'm sorry I called so late."

"It's not a problem. I was awake."

"I'm glad," Abby said, without thinking. She looked at him, holding her gaze far longer than she intended, a funny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. 

Carter stared back. "What?"

"Nothing." She shook her head and let her gaze drop, her back leaning against the closed door and her hand playing with the doorknob. 

He searched her face questioningly. "You sure?"

"Positive."

Carter looked amused. "Because you were staring at me." 

"I was not," Abby scoffed.

"No, you definitely were."

"I was _looking at you."_

"There's a difference?"

"Trust me, Carter, you'd know if I was staring at you."

"You're right," he conceded. 

"Thank you."

"I _would know."_

"Oh, for the love of…"

"And you were definitely staring at me."

"Jesus Christ." She rolled her eyes. 

"Careful, or you'll give me a messiah complex."

"Like you don't have one already."

"Hey now," Carter said mildly. Scratching the back of his neck, he gave her a lopsided smile.

Abby watched as it dissolved from his face, the bags of takeout dropping to the floor.

"What?" she laughed, self-consciously. "What is it?"

He stepped towards her, his eyes lancing hers with their pure piercing stare. She held her breath and watched as his pupils snapped into focus, light reflecting from his eyes like a gem all the colors of a dark dawn sky. His hand went to her face.

"Ow! Hey, watch it." She shot him a dirty look. 

"Sorry." With quick, deft fingers, he presented his treasure: a small bottle cap. "It was caught in your hair."

"I, uh, thanks." Abby snatched it from his hand. 

"You've been drinking."

"No?" she offered.

"Don't lie to me." 

He grabbed the food and headed for the couch. Cursing silently to herself, she joined him. 

"I haven't had a drink in a week," she tried bravely. "Give me a break."

He glowered at her. Shaking his head, he began opening the bags of food. "Chow mein? Dumplings? Fortune cookies?"

Abby reached for the fortune cookie, her hand brushing against his as she missed.

"Let me," he sighed, helping her right herself as she stumbled against him. He forced his voice to remain level. "How much did you drink?"

"Just one beer." 

"Really."

She narrowed her eyes, cat-like, and cocked her head. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You don't believe me."

He exhaled sharply. "Does it matter?"

"I guess not," she said under her breath. "So what's your fortune?"

Cracking the small cookie open, Carter unfurled the crumpled paper and smoothed it over with his fingers, eyes scanning the one line quickly.  

"Well?" Abby arched an eyebrow. "What does it say?"

"Good things come to those who wait," he read aloud, with no small amount of irony.

"In bed."

"What?"

"Good things come to those who wait in bed," she repeated.

"I heard you the first time."

"Well, usually when people ask 'what,' it implies that they haven't heard—"

Carter ignored her, poking her in the side with a pair of chopsticks.

"Hey," she protested, laughing.

"I heard what you said the first time," he said curtly. 

"So…?"

Grudgingly, he cleared his throat. "In bed?"

"Don't tell me you haven't done that before." She fished for the soy sauce in the wilted plastic bag, grimacing as the grease stained her fingers. 

"Done something in bed?"

"No." Abby rolled her eyes, a little laugh slipping from her lips. "Read your fortune, and tacked on 'in bed' at the end of it."

"Can't say that I have."

"Oh, you're missing out."

"I'll live."

"You're no fun."

"A regular black hole of fun."

Abby munched on her food in silence.

"Don't everybody rush to disagree," Carter muttered, jabbing his chopsticks ruthlessly into the grease-soaked box.

"What?" she asked, her dark eyes wide and innocent. 

"As my friend," he said between bites, "You are contractually obligated to disagree with any disparaging remarks I make about myself."

"Yeah, right. I don't remember signing any contract."

"You did." He popped a mushroom into his mouth. "Here, try some of these egg rolls."

"I did no such thing," she protested as he took the opportunity to stuff an egg roll into her open mouth. "Mmmrph."

"What's that? You signed a contract obliging you to disagree with any disparaging remarks I make about myself?" Carter paused, considering. "And I look great in a turtleneck?"

Abby swallowed her bite and glared at him in mock anger. "Not true."

"That's not what I just heard."

"Except for the turtleneck part," she tacked on under her breath, taking a huge bite of her egg roll.

"Wait, what?"

"Mrrmrmrph?"

"Repeat that again?"

"Mrrmrmrph?"

"No, not that. The other part. The turtleneck."

Abby gestured confusedly, motioning at the food in her mouth.

"Oh, you are so dead," Carter exclaimed, flinging a noodle at her.

She squealed, his fingers smearing grease on her cheeks. 

"Okay," she laughed, "You. Turtleneck. Good. Now will you stop being angry at me?"

"I'm not angry at you," he said automatically.

She looked at him appraisingly. "Not anymore."

*          *          *

Stabbing his chopsticks into a hill of leftover noodles, Carter leaned back in his seat, his shoulders gratefully falling against the softness of the couch. He patted his stomach and watched with amusement as Abby proceeded to methodically do away with the rest of the chow mein, ingredient by ingredient—first the chicken, then the vegetables, and then the noodles. With a little laugh, he thought to himself that he would never tire of looking at her, of admiring her dark, nocturnal beauty: the rumpled midnight hair, the moon-pale skin, the clean line of her profile.

Taking in the pretty sight before him, he couldn't help but flinch at the sudden ache that flowered in his chest, its petals unfurling to reveal a deep, blood-red center. He brought his hand to his ribcage and rubbed at it absently, feeling the ache throb: for the realities and the possibilities, for what he wanted and what he had, and for what he longed for and what he settled for, if he could call it settling. Her friendship was more than good enough for him, but he couldn't help but feel as if they had missed something better somewhere along the way; although looking back he could see no other alternatives available. There were always other people and other considerations, it was always the wrong time and the wrong place, and there was no other path but the one before them. It was just the way things were for them—and the way, he imagined, things would always be.

But that didn't mean he had to like it. He sighed, and threw a balled napkin onto the table.

"Heartburn?"

"No," Carter heard himself say, "I'm fine."

Abby cocked her head. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because," she said, savoring each word on her tongue with great enthusiasm, "You were staring at me."

"I was not."

"You definitely were."

He threw his hands up in mock exasperation. "So what if I was?"

Something like a shade passed over her eyes, her gaze flickering like candlelight before resuming its steady vigil.

"I want to know why."

The darkness and the silence poured in from all the windows like a torrent, and it was as if she was trapped in the center of some black crystal held up to starlight. Trapped, she held her ground against his wavering gaze, watching as the answer took shape in his eyes until she knew with utter certainty what he would say before he said it. 

For the first time, she felt the weight of his words in her hand and did not fear it. 

"Why?" he echoed.

"Yes, why?"

"You're beautiful," Carter shrugged.

There was a long, pregnant pause.

"Careful," she found her voice, "Or you'll give me a messiah complex."

"Like you don't have one already," he cracked.

"Out of original material already?"

"Hey—imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

"Well, that answers my question."

"You started it."

Abby couldn't help herself; she laughed.

"Thanks." She plunked the takeout box onto the table. "I needed that."

"You're welcome. Why?"

"I had a pretty crappy day."

"Was it because of that girl, Nancy?"

She shook her head slowly, looking contemplative. 

"It was more than Nancy. It was a lot of things; a lot of different things."

"Like…?" Carter prodded.

"Dr. Weaver nailed me for missing my shift."

"That's funny. She didn't say anything to me."

Abby gave him a withering glance. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Sorry."

"Luka spent the entire day harassing me."

"You're the one who slept with the guy," he said neutrally.

"I don't need the reminder, thanks."

Unrepentantly, "What did he want?"

"He wanted to talk."

"And?"

"And what?"

Carter rolled his eyes. "Did you talk to him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

She gave him an exasperated sigh. "I don't know. I didn't feel like it."

"Maybe you should talk to him."

Abby looked at him in surprise, her eyes round. "Excuse me?"

He cleared his throat. "Maybe you should talk to him?"

Speechless, her eyes widened. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Yours, of course," Carter said patiently. "But you can't avoid the guy forever."

"Why not?"

"You kind of work with him."

She waved her hand dismissively. "Details."

They sat there in relative silence, half-eaten boxes of Chinese takeout littering the landscape in front of them, their feet propped up on the table. 

"Hmm," Abby mused. 

"What?"

"I must not have gotten the memo."

"What memo?"

"The one that says you and Luka are officially bosom buddies."

"We are not," Carter said indignantly, "Bosom buddies."

"Then why the sudden change of heart?"

He grinned impishly. "Would you believe me if I told you I found religion?"

She snorted with amusement.

"Okay, so Luka's being a stalker and Weaver had you for lunch. Doesn't sound like a _terrible day."_

"I fainted in trauma."

"Wasn't that bad."

"It was embarrassing," Abby laughed.

"I've done worse."

"You've never fainted in trauma."

"Yeah, but I've puked my guts out," Carter pointed out.

She smiled half-heartedly. "Nancy's baby died in the Peds ICU."

He paused. "I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"I know you said she reminded you of yourself."

"She did." Ruefully, Abby looked down, picking an imaginary piece of lint off her pajama bottoms. "I lost a child once."

Astonished, he turned to look at her.

"I had an abortion."

Carter nodded numbly, his head spinning.

"Richard was in school, and I was busy working to support us…" She trailed off. "I didn't think it was the right time."

He hesitated. "What did Richard say about it?"

"He doesn't know."

"…I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago." Abby cleared her throat, drumming her fingers against the flat plane of her stomach. "I guess…I guess I saw a little of myself in her. In Nancy. And I wanted it to be different for her. She was just fourteen. She deserved some kind of happily ever after."

Carter exhaled softly. "Sometimes happily ever after isn't possible."

"No." She hesitated. "I don't think it exists."

Silence followed her words, its sting smarting keenly against her eyelids. She closed her eyes against it and rubbed at her eyelids with her fingertips, distinctly aware of the curve of the hour, letting herself fall, a little bit, into the long, luscious pause of drowsiness.

"I thought about my mom all day."

A hush fell upon them like the somnolent pause of a lullaby. 

"I miss her so much," she whispered.

His hand slipped warmly around hers. 

"God, I wish I was drunk," she suddenly laughed, using her free hand to wipe away the wetness smearing her cheeks. "Wouldn't hurt so much."

He squeezed her hand. "It would."

Through a blurry lens of tears, Abby looked down at their hands. Their fingers were plaited together like vines, her hand so small in his. She felt him squeeze her fingers gently. 

"I had a hangover," she blurted. "All day."

Carter frowned. "I thought you said you didn't drink all week."

Abby sunk lower in her seat, her cheeks burning. 

"I know. I lied."

He inhaled sharply.

"Promise me something," he said finally.

"Depends on the promise."

"Then promise me you won't lie to me anymore."

"I don't lie to you, Carter."

"Yeah, well, you just did."

Abby said nothing for awhile.

"It was easier," she said, unhappily. "Carter…"

"Yeah?"

"You know how hard it is."

"Sometimes people make it easier." He squeezed her hand.

She exhaled. 

"I promise." She looked at him, her gaze clear and even. "I promise I won't lie to you anymore."

"I want you to pinky promise."

"What?" she laughed.

"I'm serious," he replied, his face grave.

She gazed at him. "I can't do that."

Looking hurt, he blinked. "Why not?"

Abby dropped her voice to a hush. "You're holding my hand."

"Oh." Carter smiled, and let it go. 

She raised her right hand and met his upturned pinky with hers, hooking them together and shaking firmly. "I promise. No more lying."

"Good," he declared.

"You too."

"Scout's honor."

"You're not a Boy Scout."

"Close enough."

"I'm glad you came."

He took her hand again. 

"I'm glad you called."

*          *          *

"Wake up." Abby shook him gently. 

Carter kept his eyes closed, a groan rumbling low in his throat. "I wasn't asleep."

"Yet," she poked him. "Wake up. I didn't get to read my fortune."

He glanced at her sideways then closed his eyes again.

"Bastard," she muttered good-naturedly as she rose out of her seat, nearly tripping over herself in the process. She fell across his knees, her fingers scraping against the cookie.

"I got it," he murmured, shoving her off gently. Yawning, he picked up the cookie and cracked it open.

"What's it say?"

Carter examined the small type. 

"You're not going to believe me."

"Try me."

"You sure?"

"_Yes."_

A long pause. "Nah, forget it."

"If you're not going to read it, at least give it to me so I can read it."

Carter tilted his head, considering. "Nah."

"Thief," Abby declared, making a grab for the slip of paper.

"Sticks and stones, Abby." Carter couldn't help himself as he laughed, all traces of drowsiness vanishing. He dangled the fortune away from her as she reached over him and swiped wildly at his far arm. 

"Carter!"

"I said no," he insisted teasingly, waving it away from her.

"You're a dead man," she grunted, getting up and struggling over him. 

Suddenly, she lost her balance and fell against him.

"Whoa," he laughed again, his hand reaching up reflexively to steady her arms as she sat down hard upon his legs and straddled his knees. "Are you okay?"

There was an awkward pause. Like a bright light reflecting off the curvature of a glass, it glared at them, blinding them and accentuating the moment and its sharp edges. And in that instant, all the world seemed to be contained in that small room.

"I'm fine," she mumbled, his legs warm against the insides of her thighs. "I—" Abruptly, she cut herself off, and did something she had never done before.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

*          *          * 

Light exploded star-like in front of his eyes.

Carter froze, the sensation of her soft mouth against his triggering tremors up and down his body, and alarm bells in his head. Almost immediately he smashed the alarms and ignored all the warnings of sense and sensibility, that he might be selfish for one moment. 

Just for one perfect moment. 

That his hands might cling to the curves of her face like water and like light, that he might open his eyes and look at her with the reckless possessiveness of lovers—this, he knew, he could not give up. He could not let it go; knowing that such a moment might not come to pass again.

So he kissed her back.

*          *          *

At first they kissed each other slowly, patiently, with all the tentativeness and thoroughness of new lovers. She parted her lips, his mouth opening almost reflexively under hers, and kissed him, the soft collision of tongues and teeth more than enough to send violent quakes up and down the landscape of her body.

But it wasn't enough. Almost simultaneously, their mouths began moving together with a sort of reckless abandon, desperate and feverish and urgent. She gasped, nothing but the sound of blood roaring in her head, and clutched at him. She felt as if she was drowning without dying, living without breathing, surrounded by nothing and no one but him, and always him, and only him. 

And she smiled.

The smile disappeared from her face, contentedness replaced by a more primal urge, as the need to feel his bare skin pressed against hers burned like a physical pain in her chest. Frantically, her hands dropped from his face, fingers scrambling against the soft cotton of his tee, and she drew back only momentarily so to yank his shirt over his head. 

A muted, strangled groan low in his throat escaped his lips. 

With shaking, desperate hands he touched her. He ran his hands over the wings of her shoulder blades, along the exposed curve of her neck. His fingers flew over the smooth plane of her skin like piano keys. And with a delicious slowness he ran his hands down the contours of her back, slipping them under the hem of her camisole and feeling nothing but burning skin underneath. 

Kissing her was like coming home, but for the first time. She tasted like dark chocolate, strong and bitter, and something else—something heady and unyielding, something he could not yet identify. He tried to focus on that something but could not, the feeling of her palms sliding over his bare chest incinerating any semblance of rational thought. Involuntarily, he jumped, his heel knocking against—

Something solid.

Something glass.

Instantly, he knew what that something was.

Breathless, Carter grabbed her arms and pushed her away.

"Carter?" Abby stared at him, her eyes huge in her flushed face. "What? What is it?"

"We can't do this," he exhaled, resisting the compulsion to pull her to him again. He felt disoriented and he reached out for something—other than Abby—to grasp. With some small relief, he found a pillow and dropped it rather awkwardly between them.

"We can't do this?" She shook her head, incredulous. "Why the hell not?"

Gently, he eased her off his lap, his hair standing wildly on end. He searched for his t-shirt and avoided her gaze as she held it out to him. Pulling it on, he reached down, his hands groping underneath the couch for—

An empty glass. He reached down again and found its companion, a half-empty bottle.

"You were drinking before I got here," he said thinly, his voice faint and his expression lost. "You shouldn't have kissed me."

She touched his face, forcing him to look at her. 

"I didn't kiss you because I was drunk," Abby said, her voice low and firm.

He gave her one long, agonizing look.

"This is nothing like what happened with Luka."

She watched as he said nothing, his eyes focusing on a point somewhere beyond the darkness.

"It isn't. I'm not even attracted to Luka anymore."

"Really," he snorted.

"Okay, maybe just a little—"

"You're making it worse."

"Sorry." Abby clasped her hands and stared down into her lap. 

"It's okay."

She was quiet. 

"I thought that this was what you wanted," she hesitated.

He pursed his lips. 

"Is it what you want?"

She looked at him helplessly.

"Or is it just easier this way, right now?"

And she found that she could not answer.

Carter gazed into the darkness, the expression on his face inscrutable and the flush nearly gone from his cheeks. Wordlessly, she reached out for his hand and he gave it to her. Exhaustion came over her in waves and she fell against him, her head pillowed in his lap and his hand tucked close to her heart.

The room shifted as if a dream. She didn't trust herself to speak.

*          *          *

Day was breaking. 

A flat, uninteresting, utterly uninspiring shade of gray, the sky was oddly overcast, making for a wholly unremarkable dawn. But the light that slanted through the windows was not: falling upon their shoulders like a soft blanket, it had the color and the shape of a dense fog, and it was beautiful. 

Carter watched as this light crept over them, their bodies so close together that he could feel the rhythmic staccato of her heartbeat snuggled against his chest. She lay on top of him; her cheek pillowed on his shoulder, her breathing regular and even, and her body warm and heavy with sleep. Dawn threw random patterns across her face in a pretty adagio of shadow and light, and it illuminated her features in the soft glow of a halo.

His heart thumped painfully. With a rush of tenderness, he was struck by how beautiful she was, in her own dark and unsettling way. 

Perhaps he should not have stayed. But she had fallen asleep in that quiet room, her head in his lap, and he could not bear to wake her. So he elected to stay and watch her sleep until his eyes gave way to repose as well. But now he was awake and his head hummed with activity. There were many things to consider: many obligations and many people, all of which acted as threads pulling on them like puppet strings. There were his feelings, and then there were hers. There was her drinking. There was her mother. There was Luka and the unuttered truths he alone needed to tell her. 

There were so many reasons why he needed to move forward—from this place in his life, and from her, around whom he had spent the past two years building another world and another life far removed from this one.

But there was one good reason to stay.

She stirred. He gave her one last lingering look, eyes full of simple and unadorned adulation, and carefully shifted his weight, inching out from beneath her.

Abby snored lightly, and clutched at him. 

Carter relented. Maybe just a few more minutes. 

*          *          *__

There was a soft knock at the door.

Carter turned his head toward the sound, his hand frozen on the handle of her coffee pot. He glanced over at Abby, who remained undisturbed, apparently deep in slumber. Shrugging, he poured himself a mug of the steaming liquid and padded softly to the door, ducking his head and squinting into the peephole. 

It was Luka.

Carter groaned softly to himself. The man had an uncanny knack for finding the most inconvenient times to serve his agenda.

"Go away," he hissed.

"Abby?" the familiar voice called through the door. "Is that you?"

With a grimace, he undid the locks and swung the door open.

Luka looked startled. "Carter?"

"Luka," Carter nodded, the mug at his lips. "Good morning."

"Is…uh…is Abby here?"

Carter nodded again, but made no movement to leave the doorway. 

"Can I talk to her?"

"She's asleep," he replied. "On the couch."

Luka scratched his head, looking at a loss. 

Inwardly, Carter sighed. "Do you want a cup of coffee?"

Without waiting for Luka's response, he disappeared briefly and returned again, two steaming mugs in his hands. He stepped into the hallway and nudged the door closed behind him. A thin wand of light from the doorway was visible in the shadowy corridor.  

"Thanks for the coffee," Luka said, the mug at his lips. 

"No problem." Carter rummaged through the pockets of his pants and revealed his bounty: sugar packets and dairy creamers. "Sugar? Cream?"

"No, thanks."

"You take your coffee black."

"Just like Abby," Luka noted. Faintly embarrassed, he gave Carter a polite smile. "Speaking of Abby, I guess I should probably come back later."

Carter rocked back slightly on his heels, nodding his head in a slow and thoughtful fashion.

"She's still ignoring me," Luka explained. "I left a message on her machine last night, but she didn't call back."

Smirking, Carter raised an eyebrow. "She's difficult, isn't she?"

Luka smiled in acknowledgement of the familiar words. "I decided to make it easier for her by coming to her door."

"I know it's important, but I don't really want to wake her." He rubbed at his jaw with his free hand. "She needs the rest."

"Yeah," Luka blurted quickly. "No problem. Tell Abby I came by." 

Swallowing the last of his coffee, he handed the mug back to Carter.

Carter watched the other man retreat down the hallway.

"When are you going to tell her?" he called after his disappearing figure.

Luka halted in his tracks.

Behind him, Carter crossed his arms, the empty mug dangling from the crook of his index finger. "I know she won't listen to you, but you have to make her. She needs to hear what you have to say."

"She will." He turned his head slightly, the line of his profile indistinct in the darkened hallway. "Don't worry about it."

"I have to worry."

"I know."

They stared at each other silently. 

Luka gestured vaguely at the door. "Anyway, tell her I stopped by—and not to sleep with her."

"Very funny," Carter smiled slightly.

"You'd think she'd be happy to hear we didn't sleep together—"

"Excuse me?"

Both men jumped, clearly startled.

Abby stepped into the hallway.

"I'm sorry, Luka, what did you just say?"

*          *          * 

"What did you just say?"

"Abby." Luka took several tentative steps toward her, so that between the three of them they formed a rough equilateral triangle of sorts. "Hey."

"Talk," she said flatly, her voice hard as ice. "What did you just say to Carter?"

The men exchanged glances. 

"Maybe I should go," Carter hesitated. "You and Luka should—"

"No." Abby glared at them, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes glittering. "Stay."

Carter shifted uneasily in place.

She turned her attention back to Luka. "Well?"

"We, uh…"

"Out with it."

He swallowed hard.

"_Luka."_

"We didn't sleep together," he said softly.

With a sinking feeling, Carter watched as Abby jerked, shock thinly disguised in the lines of her face.

"And when," she said slowly, struggling to keep the tremors out of her voice, "were you planning to tell me?"

"I tried," Luka began, helpless.

"Oh, right," she scoffed.

"You wouldn't talk to me."

"Well, yeah—I thought I slept with you!"

"And why is that such a terrible thing?" he blurted.

Abby glowered silently, her mouth set in a grim line.

"I'm sorry," Luka muttered. "I should've told you sooner."

"Damn right you should've told me," she said, bitter. "How could you—"

"I didn't know you thought we slept together."

"Luka! I woke up in your bed with half my clothes missing and a huge hangover—what the hell did you think I was thinking?"

"I don't know," Luka repeated, miserable, "I didn't even get to talk with you that morning. You left before I woke up."

Abby looked ready to launch another tirade when she stopped, closing her mouth abruptly. A looking of comprehension dawned on her face.

"Wait," she said slowly. "If you didn't know that I thought we slept together, how did you…?"

"I told him."

Slowly, she swiveled her head.

"I told him," Carter repeated, his face tense and unhappy. "I went to him and I confronted him."

"Why?" she asked, all emotion gone from her voice.

"Abby, you told me you were drunk the night you slept with him. I thought he took advantage of you."

"So, what?" she snapped, her eyes flashing. "You went to Luka—behind my back—to protect my honor? What'd you do, beat him up or something?"

To his credit, Carter looked embarrassed. 

"Oh my god," Abby laughed harshly. "What exactly gives you the right to play hero in my life, Carter?"

"I wasn't trying to be a hero," he argued, "I was just trying—"

Shrilly, "You were just trying to protect me, right? Rescue me from the big, bad Luka?"

Carter fell silent.

She laughed again, disbelief and shock shattering the cadences of her voice like cascades of falling ice. "Did it ever occur to you that I didn't need to be rescued?"

"Abby…"

Her voice grew louder. "Did it ever occur to you that you're not responsible for solving my problems for me?"

"I—"

"Did it ever occur to you that Luka would _never_ take advantage of me?"

"I don't know," he broke in harshly, "_Did it ever occur to you?_"

Speechless, Abby glowered at him. "That's not the point."

"That is exactly the point," Carter snapped. "Wake up, Abby! You drank too much that night. You thought you slept with Luka. You couldn't even remember what else might've happened to you. You can't control how much you drink or what you do when you're drinking."

"Carter," Luka interrupted quietly.

"No." He glared at Abby. "You have a serious problem, and you need to stop pretending like it doesn't exist."

"Spare me the dogma," she spat. "I was your sponsor, remember?"

"And now you need help."

"Oh, give me a fucking break."

"Look, I'm trying to help you and—"

"_Help me?" Abby repeated, laughing. "You're not trying to help me; you're trying to lecture me on how to live my life!"_

"I'm not lecturing you," Carter burst.

"Get off your fucking high horse, Carter! I'm not some damsel-in-distress and you're not my knight-in-shining-armor. You can't just assume that I need or want rescuing and come riding in, thinking you and your magic sword are going to make things all better."

"Well, maybe I wouldn't feel the need to rescue you all the time if you didn't put yourself in that position," he retorted.

"That's not for you to say!" Abby screamed.

"The hell it isn't!"

"You don't get to decide what's wrong with my life and when I need help—that's something only I get to decide."

"Yeah, well, you're not exactly great at deciding anymore," Carter snapped.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How can you be, when half the time you're drunk—"

Her eyes widened. "You son of a bitch—"

"—And the other half the time, you're trying to figure out what happened while you were drunk."

"That's bull shit," she exclaimed, her voice full of scorn. 

"Is it?" he challenged, incredulous.

"You know it is!"

"Then do you remember almost getting yourself raped?" Carter exploded, flinging the mugs against the wall. 

A thunderous shattering filled the hallway

Carter was not aware of the palpable silence that followed his outburst, nor was he aware of the silent prayer that escaped from Luka's lips. Instead, all his world was fixed on Abby in that infinitely long moment, and on the look of devastation that rippled through her face. 

"Abby," he began, his voice broken and on the verge of tears, "You were almost raped that night I left your apartment."

She flinched violently.

Tentatively, Luka approached her, drawing as near to her as he dared.

"I found you in a bar," he began in his soft accent, his voice quiet and sad. "Completely by accident. I didn't recognize you right away—you were very drunk and you were with another person. A man I didn't know. He was—" 

Luka stopped. 

"What?" Abby whispered, her face white.

He looked away.

"He was touching you." With great difficulty, Luka continued. "I tried to get you to leave with me, but you wouldn't. You wouldn't go. That man—he wouldn't let you. I think—I'm sure he put something in your drink."

She forced herself to look at him. "Did he…?"

"No," he cut in. "I hit him. Then I carried you to my apartment."

A ragged sigh escaped her lips. Lost, she turned to Carter.

"You knew about this?"

Carter nodded, his face ashen.

Abby lifted her eyes to his, her gaze shattered and empty. Slowly, she turned around and walked into her apartment, closing the door behind her. She hung each chain and turned each lock into place.

When she was done, she leaned against the door. Dizzily, she brought her hand up to her face.

She fell on her knees and heaved.

And then there was darkness, nothing but darkness. A thousand nights congealed in a pool of black in which she drowned.

*          *          *

CREDITS: The title of the chapter alludes to a popular idiom: "The darkest hour is just before dawn." Opening quote is snagged from the song "Latter Days" by one of my favorite bands, Over the Rhine (www.overtherhine.com). The last two lines of the chapter are taken verbatim from the Prologue—check out the journal if you want to know why.


	9. The Pilgrim

TITLE: Through the Door (9/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult situations and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown."

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: First, an announcement: Chapter Eight may be the last chapter and the second-to-last part overall of _Through the Door, but plans for a sequel are in the works. Look for the yet-untitled sequel to hit a web browser near you this October. Getting back to our regularly scheduled programming, thanks to everyone who reviewed by email or on ff.net: Ghclayfan, Charlotte, Kate, Em, JD, Dana, Jess, Rebecca, CorruptCarbyChickie, Holly, Eve, ArtificialRed, hottie9752, and Theresa. You guys constantly encourage me with your kind words and amazing insights into the story. Super-sized thanks to Heather for her hospitality in hosting. And, of course, I'm a feedback junkie, so please review!_

SUMMARY: Carter and Abby hit the road in hopes of finding answers and a little closure.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Pilgrim

_But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,  
And loved the sorrows of your changing face._

*          *          *

_Two weeks later._

IT WAS ALMOST LIKE DRIVING THROUGH OKLAHOMA AGAIN, except this time they were in Minnesota, the somber green countryside flying by the windows of his Jeep in flashes, like sudden and unexpected bursts of memory. 

Carter sat with his eyes focused on the road, his hands expertly guiding the car along the gentle bends and a melody low in his throat. He glanced sideways. Abby sat in the passenger's seat beside him, slumped against the window with one hand entangled in her hair and the other lazily resting between the folds of a crinkled road map. The sunlight that slanted through the window caught along the slope of her profile and dusted the curves of her face in a pale, antiquated gold.

"I think we're officially lost," she said finally, a pen caught between her teeth. 

"Yeah?" 

"I know you're a man, and there's some unofficial man code dictating that you can't admit it when you're lost, but we're lost, Carter."

"See, that's where you're wrong," he countered, flipping down the visor to shield his eyes from the setting sun.

"So we aren't lost?"

"Oh." Carter blinked. "No, we're definitely lost. I was just going to say that the man code is official."

Groaning, Abby rolled her eyes.

"Hey," he said mildly, "I offered to get us plane tickets."

"I like driving," was her response.

"You're not driving," he reminded her.

"Fine." She yawned. "I like navigating."

"You're not navigating, either."

"I am too navigating."

"But we're lost."

"Hey, I never said I navigated well."

Carter smiled to himself. "Now you tell me." 

Shoving the map messily into the glove department, Abby picked up the large plastic bag at her feet and set it on her lap, her hands picking through the collection of candy wrappers. Within a minute, she put the bag back down in a huff.

"I'm hungry."

"Do you see what I see?" Carter teased.

"Hey," she snapped her fingers, "Eyes on the road, buddy."

"You didn't answer my question."

Sighing, "I see about fifteen candy wrappers and an unopened bag of Milk Duds. You?"

"I see dinner."

"I stand corrected."

"Come on…didn't you say something about wanting to get there by tonight?"

"So?"

"So…we won't be able to make it if we stop for dinner."

"Carter," Abby said, plaintive, "Milk Duds do not a satisfying dinner make."

"I think there's a Snickers bar somewhere in there," he said helpfully.

"Come on, you've got to be kidding me."

"It's jumbo sized."

"Carter," she warned.

"Or we could get something to eat," Carter relented.

"How far is the next rest stop?"

"There's one in thirty miles and another in fifty. There's a motel at the thirty. But if we make the fifty, we're guaranteed a selection of fine Minnesotan bed and breakfasts—"

"I need to use the bathroom."

"Thirty miles it is."

They drove in silence the rest of the way, the sun before them alternatively dipping and soaring out of and into sight as the Jeep bobbed along the slopes of the sparsely populated road. From time to time Carter glanced over at Abby; her mouth wrung in a child-like petulance and the flush of sunset on her face, he thought she'd never looked prettier.

*          *          *

They had maintained their respective distances for nearly a week by the time Abby brought up Minnesota. Carter had passed these days watching her when he thought she wasn't looking—otherwise, the hours dragged by in long, reluctant stretches of time. Uneasily, he was reminded all too well of the only other period in their friendship when things had felt so horribly wrong: the weeks following their talk by the river, just after she and Luka had stopped seeing each other and as he had begun to date Susan.

Speaking of Susan, she had approached him on several occasions in the last couple of weeks, sometimes with a cup of coffee in hand and once with a hideously garish happy face sticker. He was, as she explained, emanating silent "cries for help" with his "hang dog face" and "puppy dog eyes," to which she of course had to respond. 

Carter promptly responded back by glaring. 

But as the days crawled by, her pointed inquiries came further and fewer in between. For she had come to realize that it wasn't so much the fact that he didn't _want to answer her questions, but that he __couldn't answer them. So he deflected them._

When Carter wasn't dodging Susan, he was watching Luka with a renewed kind of morbid curiosity. There was a sadness now to the way Luka smiled at Abby that Carter had never noticed before. It was as if the other man had suddenly and painfully realized how far and how deep the gulf between he and Abby had always ran. In spite of their similarities—dark, closed-off, tortured—they remained on opposite shores, no more able to help each other than their own selves. Like mirror images, they had spent the interval of their relationship attempting to send each other signals across the gulf, all the while being blinded by the glare from the other. As a result, neither could see past their own personal misery; reflected in, and augmented by, the other. 

Strangely, Carter found himself sympathizing with Luka as the other man tried to grapple with this newfound knowledge. Sympathy was not an emotion he was used to experiencing when it came to his colleague—and in many ways, his rival—so it threw him.

Anyway, neither man had won this time. Abby spent her shifts ignoring the both of them (save for the necessary professional exchanges) and Carter, in his wisdom, kept his distance—and his vigil. 

On more than one occasion he caught her making a beeline for the ambulance bay. It was during these times that he would slip into the lounge just to peer between the blinds of the window and watch her there. Standing under the leaf-fractured sunlight with her dark head bowed and a cigarette dangling from her mouth, she would spend her time pacing the perimeter of the bay and fingering, but never lighting, the smoke at her lips. Meanwhile, she seemed oblivious to the glimmer of sunshine falling upon her hair, crowning her dark head in a ring of endless light not completely unlike the tarnished halo of a fallen angel.

In this manner did he watch her every day, and she in return ignored him. So admittedly, he was more than a little surprised by her sudden invite to Minnesota.

But Abby was probably more surprised when he accepted.

Carter knew that she had expected his polite refusal when she asked. He also knew that she had not asked on an impulse, nor had she planned this moment ahead of time, either. Rather, the invitation came to her as naturally as the good humor that flickered in her gaze or the dark shifts in mood that crossed her face like shadows. Because it was unlike her to pretend to be anyone other than she was, she let it fall from her lips, no matter how awkward the situation between them. So he, in response, said what came most naturally to him, situation be damned: he said yes.

As the day for leaving drew nearer, their professional exchanges—bland, polite, and labored—were soon complemented by the casual five minute chats necessary for ironing out the details of the trip. On the morning of their departure, he had showed up at her door at the designated time, one hand clutching the wheel of his Jeep and the other hand clutching a bag full of candy. "Necessary rations," he had explained, popping a jawbreaker into his mouth.

That seemed to do the trick. Abby felt her face break into a smile and Carter joined her, inviting her with the ease of their old, easy amity to hop in the Jeep and keep all hands and objects inside the moving vehicle at all times. After that moment, there had been little to suggest that anything remarkable happened on that unexpected night, as well as on that unexpected morning.

But something had happened—two things, to be precise—and it was only a matter of time before they would resurface again.

With a vicious turn of the faucet, Carter stopped the flow of running water. Dazedly, he stared at himself in the mirror, lost in thought, until the sound of a toilet flushing yanked him out of his trance. He shook his head and the water off his hands.

*          *          * 

The diner was a small, cozy affair straddling the highway, its confetti-bright sign and incandescent windows of light a welcomed interruption from the monotony of the empty, unreeling road. But now Abby wished they had opted for something a little quieter than the clamor of noisy dinnertime chatter and the bustle of ceaseless activity. The bright lights and sounds only exacerbated the headache that had flowered behind her eyes at lunchtime and still showed no signs of wilting.

As soon as they had entered the establishment, Abby had excused herself to use the restroom, coming back to find Carter chatting amicably with the waitress, a twenty-something blonde with a becoming smile and (apparently) personality to match. She had sat them in a booth by the window and promised to return soon, giving Carter a wink and Abby, nary a glance. Carter had excused himself shortly thereafter, presumably to use the restroom.

At first, Abby had leafed through the menu with gusto, intent on pacifying her grumbling stomach. But before long her eyes had wandered back outside to watch the procession of day to night. Her chin perched upon the heel of her hand and her eyes squinting in the glare, she watched and waited for the dusky rose-and-peach bloom of sunset to melt into the dream-water blue of twilight.

She had not slept much in the past week, her sleep plagued by dreams and nightmares alike. Wraith-like faces appearing in the faded colors of yesteryear, they created a hideous mural of images, their raspy voices slurring together in an elegy of promises long dismissed and buried by her consciousness. But in the daylight, these faces and these voices had no distinct form or meaning; like an Impressionist painting, they merely lost their distinctions when she tried to look closer at their vaguely terrifying figures.

What was perhaps most troubling about these visions was the place upon which she looked. It didn't take long for her to realize that the landscape in her dream was not some nebulous, indefinable thing, but a graveyard. 

It was always with this sickening realization that she found herself jerking awake. On more than one occasion she awoke with a raw and aching cavity right over her heart. In these darkest hours she sat huddled on the bed, the phone cradled in her hands as she attempted to shake off the feeling of _belonging _to this graveyard.

It was a little better at work, but not by much. Abby needed only one look to know that their words, ugly and black and hateful, were still ringing in Carter's head as they were in hers, long after they had been uttered. She saw it plainly on his face, dark and fleeting like a shadow, and knew that the same expression was mirrored on her own. 

She could not bear it, so she ignored him.

Sometimes, the waking and the dream became all too much for her glass-fragile self to take. It was during these times that she found herself retreating again and again to the ambulance bay, if only to remind herself that she was not yet a part of the graveyard of her sleep. The sun on her head and the tired August wind on her cheek, she reminded herself again and again that things were okay—that _she_ was okay.

_Nothing has changed. Abby consoled herself, taking deep breaths and the cigarette from her mouth. __You're stronger than this._

But everything had changed. She felt it keenly, like a queer stab to her heart. There was a finality to it all—to their kiss, to their fight, to everything—that cut her cleanly to the bleached whites of her bones. The things she had said and done, and the things Carter had said and done in return, were not things one just took back. Rather, they were choices that remained with her like an unwelcome shadow; except unlike her faithful doppelganger, these choices appeared to have lives of their own, opening and shutting the doors in her life like a second heartbeat independent from her own.

It was the same way when Maggie died: this sense of being followed, of being locked out of certain rooms and led into others. When Abby had clutched the phone to her ear, scarcely believing the words coming from the other end of the line, she knew with an abrupt and dreaded certainty that the choices Maggie had made—and the choices Abby was about to—would be the kinds of choices that would shadow Abby daily. Try as she might, she no longer felt as if she controlled her life; rather, she felt as if her life controlled her. From the first conscious draw of breath in the morning to her last conscious exhale at night, she felt as if she was constantly, helplessly trapped, doomed to obey the lingering shadows of her past decisions even as she made new ones.

But she was resigned to it. This was, ironically, the choice she had made. She chose to make the kinds of non-choices that left the doors of her life ajar, until these very same non-choices grew tired of her passivity and started opening and closing, locking and unlocking the doors on their own.

Abby had the eerie feeling that Carter knew this. Somehow, he saw right through her half-hearted attempts to playact the living of her life. He saw her for who she was. Sometimes it frightened her and sometimes it angered her, but mostly it shamed her.

They would have to talk about this someday. Perhaps not today, nor tomorrow, but someday soon; she could feel it in the marrow of her bones. She knew they had to talk about what had transpired—not only on that night and on that morning, but for the past two years. They would have to talk about what had happened, and what had happened to her, and what had happened to them.

Carter would force her to look at herself in a way she was no longer accustomed to doing so. Doors would open and close—but by her own hand. Some she would walk through and some she would leave forever; regardless, he would follow her. And, with a notable exception, they would pass through most all the doors and emerge on the other side the same as they were before: friends. The best of friends. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Some small part of that disappointed her.

Not that there was anything wrong with being friends: it was, after all, how they began, and it was, she hoped, how they would always stay. But a small, secret part of her—a part that used to dream of sugared blossoms, and pretty dresses, and butterflies careening in the pit of her stomach—was strangely sorry to know that the tumult of the past month would soon pass. Washed over by the frank and painless camaraderie she knew to be their friendship, it would be as the tide washed over the shore, smoothing over imperfections in the wet sand with a kind of predictable, timeless grace. It would be welcomed, and it would be pleasant, but it would be easy, too easy.

After all that had happened, after the buildup and the breakdown, Abby could not accept that soon, things were going to be exactly the same as they were before. After Brian and her mother's passing and her drinking and her near rape, they would still be friends, as they were before it had all happened, as they were as it happened, and as they would be after it happened. 

She didn't know whether to be thankful or resentful for it.

*          *          *

"Penny for your thoughts."

Startled, Abby snapped out of her reverie, watching as Carter slid into the seat across from her.

"A penny?" She raised a well-trained eyebrow at him. "Is that all?"

"That's all."

"Cheap bastard," she quipped.

"I've been called many kinds of bastards, but never a cheap one," he responded good-naturedly.

"Well, there's a first time for everything."

Over his menu, Carter gave her a pleasant smile.

Amused, Abby watched as their waitress took obvious note of Carter's return, a predatory gleam in her eye as she sashayed her way over to their table. She never once threw a glance in Abby's direction, all eyes on Carter as she took both their orders with a pretty smile before being whisked away by another table. 

"I think she likes you," Abby observed.

"Yeah, I run into that problem a lot."

"Cocky bastard."

"Now that one, I've definitely been called."

Abby couldn't help herself; she laughed.

Carter's eyes lit up at the sound of her laughter reverberating in his ears. Without thinking, he spoke, the words falling from his lips like leaves snagged by the wind, sudden and careless. "I feel like I haven't heard you laugh in a long time."

Immediately, the laughter died, and she retreated far into herself like a wounded animal.

"Haven't had much to laugh about," she said, her voice light.

He chastised himself silently for his thoughtless words. Unthinkingly, blurted an apology: "I'm sorry."

Abby gave him a hard shrug. "There's nothing for you to be sorry about."

The waitress swung by again to deliver a fresh pot of coffee. She poured the black liquid into the two mugs, her eyes boring holes into Carter.

"Can I get you anything else?" she chirped.

"Uh…" He cleared his throat. "No thanks."

They watched as she flounced away.

Carter gave a nod in her direction. "Friendly, isn't she?"

"I didn't know one could flounce and carry coffee at the same time."

"Apparently, it's a prerequisite to the job."

"Ah." Abby sipped at her coffee, a ghost of a smile on her face. "Well, shift work becomes her."

"Don't be a snob. Not everyone can be a nurse."

"I wasn't being a snob, _Dr. Carter."_

He made a face at her. She watched as he poured a liberal amount of cream into his mug, followed by an innumerous number of sugar packets. 

"Would you like some coffee with that sugar?" she teased.

"Jesus, no." Carter wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I don't know how you can drink this stuff black."

"It's easy. You just put it in your mouth and you swallow."

"My virgin ears," he replied solemnly.

"That's disgusting."

"I know."

"What are you, twelve?"

"Sometimes it feels like it."

They sat in companionable silence, their previous unease forgotten as they sat with hot mugs in their hands. Without looking, Abby could feel the light outside waning, the color of the sky deepening from a pale sapphire to a dark, rich cobalt. Far above the horizon, stars were probably beginning to emerge, sparkling like long diamonds embedded in the near-black felt of the sky.

She heard her spoon drop. 

Letting out a breath, she became aware again of the clattering of utensils against plates and of the mumble of voices in the background. Uncomfortably, she closed her eyes against the din.

"Abby?"

She opened her eyes.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Just tired," she said under her breath.

The waitress came once again, her tray laden with their dinners.

*          *          *

"Is that all you're eating?"

"Yeah."

Picking up her fork and knife, Abby marveled. "My god. It's no wonder you're so thin."

"What?" Carter challenged, between mouthfuls of salad.

"You eat like a rabbit."

"At least I don't eat road kill," he jabbed at her plate with his fork.

"Liver and onions, Carter," Abby rolled her eyes. "Liver. And. Onions."

"I heard 'road kill' somewhere in there."

"Rabbit," she shot back. 

Feigning offence, Carter opened his mouth to retort but suddenly halted, spearing a piece of spinach and peering closely at the green.

A small moth rested on the leaf.

Smugly, "Rabbit."

"Rabbits don't eat moths," he commented, looking mournful.

The moth began to beat its wings feebly. Carter yelped, dropping his fork onto the table.

Abby chortled. "You know, you're funny when you're panicking."

"I wasn't," he stabbed at the leaf with his knife until it fell off the table, "Panicking."

"You were doing a ten on the panic scale."

Gloomy, he picked dispiritedly at the rest of his salad. 

She smiled at him. "Why don't you order something else?"

"I will."

"You should try some liver."

"You offering?"

Abby speared a small piece with her fork and, impulsively, leaned forward, nudging the piece of meat at his mouth as he automatically complied.

"Hmmm." Thoughtfully, Carter chewed and swallowed.

"You're welcome," she said.

"Pretty good," he admitted. "You were right."

Loftily, "I usually am."

"Smug."

"Rabbit."

"Sanctimonious."

"Rabbit."

"Can I have some more?"

"Sure." A beat. "Rabbit."

As he was chewing, he called over for the waitress.

*          *          *

One look at the full parking lot and look of indifference on the face of the teenager before them told Abby that they weren't going to have any luck finding a room tonight. But Carter had insisted otherwise, and so Abby found herself listening only half-heartedly to his attempts to haggle with the teen. Who, she observed, seemed singularly uninterested in what Carter had to say, and more interested in tugging his headphones back over his ears.

"Look, man. I can't help you, okay?"

"But we just need a room for tonight."

"I told you," the teen replied, looking bored, "All our rooms are taken."

"How can you not have any rooms available?" Carter laughed. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

"Well, maybe a lot of people like Nowhere, Minnesota," he bristled, wearing a scowl Abby thought was entirely too big for his age.

"Apparently," Carter muttered under his breath. "All right, then. We'll just take our business somewhere else."

"There's nowhere else."

"The hell there isn't. There's a chain of bed and breakfasts at the next rest stop."

The teen laughed. "They're not built yet."

Carter looked incredulous. "But they're on the map."

"They're not built yet." Shrugging, he shoved his headphones over his ears. "What can I tell you, man? Bad map."

"I knew it wasn't my navigating," Abby whispered with a twinkle in her eye.

Carter looked at her wearily before returning to the teen. "So you're the only motel around?"

"Yeah."

"Within a hundred mile radius?"

"Yeah."

"You're the only one?"

Looking annoyed, the teen yanked his headphones back around his neck. "Look, what part of 'yeah' do you not understand?"

Abby stifled a laugh.

"You can't spare one room for one night?" Carter fairly shrieked.

"I'm sorry," he replied loudly, putting his headphones back on. "I can't hear you."

"_Look._" Carter leaned over and plucked them off. He squinted at the boy's nametag. "Mike."

"Hey, that's Mr. Marshall to you."

"All right, then." He closed his eyes briefly. Patiently, he began again. "Mike, can I talk to a real clerk?"

"Mr. Marshall" looked at him haughtily. "I _am a real clerk."_

"Give me a break. You can't be more than sixteen."

"I'm eighteen, thanks." He snatched the headphones away from Carter.

Carter opened his mouth and shut it again.

_If looks could kill_, Abby thought with a smile. Smothering the intense desire to laugh, she nudged Carter aside and leaned across the desk, taking the headphones back.

"Hi Mike. Can I call you Mike?" Before he could say anything, she continued. "I bet your dad wouldn't be too thrilled to find out that his son was scaring away business," she said pointedly, nodding over at the portrait of a smiling, burly Mike Marshall, Sr., hanging askew from a rusted nail driven into the wall.

"Mike's fine," the boy mumbled.

"Look, Mike, I know you have a vacant room because you have three sets of keys with room numbers on them hanging behind you. Now, you can either give us one of those three rooms—"

"But—" 

"Or you can start praying now that your dad won't kick your ass from here to Chicago when he finds out you've been scaring away business."

Carter looked impressed. "Yeah," he added, for emphasis.

Abby rolled her eyes.

Mike shot Carter a murderous look before digging behind the desk, presumably for registration papers. "I was just bored. I was going to give you the room anyway."

"Well, now you have to."

"_Carter," Abby sighed._

"Sorry."

Mike unearthed a weathered clipboard and a pen. "We only have one room. The other two are reserved."

"That's fine," she waved her hand dismissively. "We'll take it." 

Carter filled out the necessary information and slid the clipboard back to Mike, who handed him a key.

"Thanks, Mike." Abby slid the headphone set across the check-in desk. "Have a good night."

"Thanks," Carter echoed, a smug smile on his face.

Pushing a shock of dirty blond hair out of his face, he jammed the headphones back in his ears. "Bastard," he muttered, without looking up.

*          *          *

"Did you hear him?" Abby thought Carter sounded vaguely insulted as they ascended the dark stairwell.

"Yeah."

"He called me a bastard!"

"Well-spotted."

"A bastard!" Carter repeated, for effect.

"I thought you said you were used to it," Abby responded mildly. She opened the door to the third floor hallway. 

"Yeah, but not from kids," he argued.

"Look, what do you want me to do?"

"Kick his ass?" he suggested.

"Carter!" she laughed.

"Okay, okay. Tell me I'm not a bastard."

"Fine," she rolled her eyes between giggles. "You're not a bastard. Feel better?"

"Absolutely," Carter replied. "Thanks."

"I think this is our room," she said in response. She slid in the key and, with some difficulty, shoved the door open.

Staggering, they nearly fainted when they crossed the threshold. Stale mothballs mingling with the scent of some kind of furniture cleaner, the stench in the room was almost overpowering. Immediately, two pairs of hands rose to cover two noses and two mouths.

The room, however, did not look as bad as it smelled. Though on the small side, it featured a large, full-sized bed facing an ancient-looking television set at its foot and a battered table on its right side. The bathroom, which hooked to the side of the room near the entry, could fit two people comfortably at the same time. Large rectangular panes of glass looked out into the street, permitting light to pour in between the slits of the blinded windows. This light fell in sheets, striping the cheap brown shag carpet in bars cast from iron colored shadows. 

"Looks like a jail," Abby finally said, cautiously removing her hands. She wrinkled her nose. "Did you bring your harmonica or should I bust out mine?"

"It's just for one night," Carter grimaced, his eyes taking a quick sweep of the room. "Wait—where's the mini bar?"

Abby looked at him.

"Kidding," he assured her, closing the door behind him.

"Snob," she teased. Gingerly, she perched herself on the edge of the bed as he walked into the bathroom. "We should get our bags."

Carter poked his head out from the bathroom. "What?"

"We should get our bags from the car," she repeated.

"I'll get them later." He flicked the light switch several times before walking back into the bedroom. "There's only one bed."

It was Abby's turn to say, "What?"

"There's only one bed," he repeated, unnecessarily.

"It's a double."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we can share," Abby laughed. "What are _you saying?"_

"Oh." Carter felt himself redden. "Nothing. Okay."

She nodded, letting him off the hook, and shifted her attention on testing the springs of the bed. Her hands planted firmly on either side, she bounced up and down like a buoy bobbing merrily along in the ocean. The squeaking of the mattress was the only sound that could be heard in the room until Carter cleared his throat.

Abby stopped. "What?"

"When are we going to talk?" he said bluntly.

She looked up at him with dark, solemn eyes.

"Not until we get there, okay?"

"Okay." Biting his lip, he turned around and reached for the handle to the front door. "I'll go get our bags from the car." 

Behind him, he heard her shift on the bed.

"Let me help you."

"No, it's okay," Carter waved at her to sit back down. "I got it."

He opened the door and backed into the hallway, his eyes never leaving hers. She sat on the bed, still as midnight, and looked back at him with the oddest expression on her face—half pleasure, half pain, and the rest, completely and utterly indecipherable. A wisp of her dark hair fell in front of her eyes and her gaze became swiftly lost to him in the complete absence of light.

Carter was startled; in the murky gloominess of the room, she was almost indistinguishable from the shadows that flowed around her like spilt black ink.

*          *          *

Abby was snoring again. 

With a careful slowness, Carter turned his head away from the window and scooted closer to her body so he could watch her sleep. She slept with the heaviness of the dead, as if she had not slept for a very long time, her fingers knotted in the sheets and her eyelids fluttering gently as she snored. 

Gently, so not to wake her, he brushed away the strands of hair that fell across her face like the dark, wilted stems of flowers. His touch lingered; his hand brushed against the soft down of her cheek in a tender caress, not completely unlike the manner in which her hand had caressed his face so many nights ago, on the lawn in front of his house.

That night felt like a lifetime ago; so much had happened since then.

But he still remembered the night like it was yesterday; her hand on his face, soft and dreamy like the wisp of a dress, and her eyes clapped possessively on him, and only him. He looked up at the ceiling and, for a moment, saw the sky as it was that night—blacker than black, like the gloss of a crow's wing, and spangled with stars that glittered like frozen flowers.

Carter knew it would be hard to move on. But he didn't know it was going to be this hard.

She had kissed him, yes. That was unmistakable. But the timing had been wrong and the meaning unclear, and since then there had been nothing to indicate that she felt for him what he felt for her with every loaded gaze, and every brush of skin. On the contrary, her behavior of the past two weeks had seemed to indicate the opposite—as if she believed that their kiss was some terrible mistake that was better left off ignored.

So he was doing what he had tried to convince himself to do over a year ago: he was letting go.

It was hard. He had been in this place for the last two years of his life. He had spent these two years wanting someone who was not his; who was pretty and strong and funny and vulnerable and always alone, even when she was dating Luka. He had built an entire world around her, his fantasies placing each beam of his little house of dreams in its proper place, right down to the white picket fence. And he had waited. Oh, how he had waited—faithfully and patiently, reverently and stubbornly.

Hopefully.

But this world had remained unclaimed, even when Luka became a thing of the past. So little by little, with great reluctance, Carter began to leave it. He began to let it alone, letting go of the leaves that fell like colored paper past the windows in the fall, and the rain that pattered with tiny mouse footsteps on the roof of the house in the spring. He let go of the frost that sugared the eaves and obscured the pretty Christmas lights in the winter; and the long, lazy afternoons in the hammock, the whir of dragonflies in their ears, in the summertime. 

The house lay dark and boarded up, the door left only slightly ajar. With a lingering last look, Carter closed his eyes and turned away, his back to her slumbering form.

Abby was careful to keep her breathing deep and even. When she was sure he had fallen asleep, she opened her eyes, staring numbly into the darkness.

*          *          *

"Stop the car."

Carter pulled up in front of a weathered looking two-story house. In dire need of a new paint job, the blue trim of the roof was peeling and what used to be a white coat of paint was now dirty and faded. An abandoned bicycle lay on its side on the front lawn, its wheel still spinning in the slight breeze, and behind it he could see a small colony of pinwheels driven into the ground among their neighbors of brightly colored tulips. 

He looked at her questioningly.

"This is my home," Abby explained, folding the map in her hands and not looking at him. "I mean, it used to be my home."

"When?"

Thoughtfully, "A long time ago."

Abby pushed the door open and hopped out, shutting it quietly behind her. Carter followed her suit.

"That's my window," she mused, more to herself than to him. "I used to sit by it and wait for Maggie to come home whenever she took off." She swung around, squinting into the harsh afternoon sunlight. "I watched the moon every night."

Obediently, he followed her shifting gaze.

"The tulips are still here," she said wistfully. "Maggie liked to grow tulips." Swallowing, she felt her throat close up in remembrance. She looked at the bright blood-reds and the butter-yellows, with their black bumblebee centers, and felt the backs of her eyes smart.

Carter cleared his throat.

A little girl, about eight or nine with enormous wood brown eyes and dirt-smeared cheeks, stood on the cracked cement pathway and stared.

"Hi," Abby smiled. "I'm Abby. What's your name?"

The girl remained mute.

Abby tried again. "Is your mommy home?"

The girl shook her head in affirmation, her pigtails wobbling. Her face broke into a shy smile. Then, without warning, she whirled around, running up the path and into the house, the screen door banging behind her.

Abby followed. With a secret certainty, Carter stayed behind and watched.

"Hello?" she called loudly.

A haggard-looking woman appeared at the door, her russet-colored hair pulled back into a messy bun. Carter watched as Abby exchanged words with this woman—presumably, the little girl's mother—and the woman disappeared briefly, only to reappear with a pair of gardening scissors. 

He wrinkled his forehead in curiosity and watched as they cut a bouquet of tulips from the garden.

*          *          *

Carter gripped the wheel in unease. Abby had not said a word to him since they left her old house with a bouquet of tulips in tow, now nearly an hour ago. Wisely, he had not pried; instead, he had driven on in silence, knowing instinctively where she wanted to go, his eyes glancing down from time to time at the map that now sat on his lap instead of hers.

She sat with her clear eyes fixed on some vague, indefinable point beyond the horizon. The flowers lay across her legs, their bright heads in stark contrast to the slender white fingers that clutched at their stems. From time to time he glanced over discreetly, noticing the troubled, wistful look that never left her eyes and the measuring the distances she seemed to be mentally traveling without him. It was as if she was some place very far away, in some place he could not follow. It made him nervous.

The crumble of gravel beneath his wheels, Carter shifted his Jeep into park and turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine. He looked at her sideways.

"We're here," he announced, rather unnecessarily. 

She said nothing.

Gently, he prodded. "You okay?"

Abby paused, as if to consider his question, and pressed her lips together. 

"No." She turned her head toward him and added, "But I'm not supposed to be."

Slowly, Carter nodded his head, his fingers drumming against the wheel.

"Do you want me to go with you?" he said at last.

"I wouldn't have asked you to come if I didn't."

"Okay." 

Sliding the key out of the ignition, Carter opened his door and stepped out, slamming it shut behind him. He trotted over to the other side and grabbed her door. Her eyes dark and her arms full of flowers, his eyes suddenly failed him, and he found he could not speak.

*          *          *

When Abby would later look back upon this memory, she always found it wryly macabre that the first thing she noticed about the cemetery was its beauty. Still privately owned by an individual and not a corporation, it was obviously very much cared for and consequently well tended. Like an ocean whose color deepened and faded depending on its death, the grass bristled a deep bottle green, darker in some places than in others. Dirt paths carved it into puzzle pieces. Surrounding the paths was a wrought iron gate whose bars were decorated by the roses that grew wild and tangled around its rails. Their heads drooping like girl's skirts and their blooms a delicate, frothy pink, their petals showered the ground in a cascade of color at the slightest hint of a breeze.

"Abby?" Carter's voice came like a beam through the darkness. He touched her arm gently. "Do you remember where it is?"

She nodded.

The walk was a short one—five, maybe ten minutes—and she led the both of them as she made her way methodically across the grounds, the tulips nestled in the crook of her arm. Finally, she halted, her face dappled by the shade from an old, sturdy-looking tree whose branches grew gnarled around the circle of its trunk. She stopped with her heart caught in her throat and her shadow cast in front of her, falling across the length of a fairly new grave, its headstone laid to rest as closely as possible to the base of the tree.

It was a fairly simple headstone. Gray and unadorned, its plain type betrayed the complexity of the emotions surrounding the burial of the woman beneath it. Around the slab, the grass had only recently begun to grow back, spiking in random tufts here and there. Dried mud caked parts of the stone. But she could still read the words etched upon the smooth plane of its surface.

_Maggie Wyczenski  
1948—2002_

She felt the flowers fall from her arms.

*          *          *

_What did one do when faced with the dead? Abby wondered dizzily.__ Did one talk to the dead as if they were our silent companions, hoping that these apparitions lived on like memories—gone, but never really completely vanished from our corporeal world; waiting, and ready to return at the slightest hint of recollection? Or were the dead more like shadows, watching us as we watched them, recalling with painful acuity what it was like to know pleasure and know pain, and all the more wretched because they could not once again know it?_

_Or were they neither, belonging not to the waking or the dreamed? _

_Can you hear me, Maggie? First mommy, then mom, then mother, until the day came when I could not bear to use that name any longer, for your disease had made it impossible to love you like a proper daughter should. _

_Was I yours? Was I yours to love, yours to poison? Did you remember me all those times you ran away, all those times you tried to kill yourself, and did you remember that all the pain you gave to yourself, you gave to your daughter a thousand times over? _

_Or did you not care?_

_When I was a child I thought like a child, I acted like a child, I loved as a child. But you never once told me that it was a disease that made you act the way you did; you let me think that I had done something wrong to deserve the kind of mother who brought me flowers one day and chased me around the house with a knife on another. When I was an adult, you begged me to understand that you had a disease which made you act the way you did; you begged me to see that you had done nothing wrong._

_But by that time it was just an excuse, and nothing more._

_Once u__pon__ a time you taught me that forgiveness was not earned but given freely, most of all to those who least deserved it. I learned otherwise. I learned that one could only forgive those who earned it, those who worked hardest for it, or I could not afford to give it otherwise. For you had taken all the forgiveness I had to give until I had none to spare—not for Richard, not for Luka, not for myself. I hated you for that; did you know that?_

_I suppose you did. You're the one who taught me how to hate._

_You also taught me how to love._

_But some lessons I remember better than others._

_Where are you, now? Do you think about me as I often as I think about you? Do you remember me as the child I once was, innocent and forgiving, or do you remember me as the woman I became, hard and embittered? Do you love them both? I am not so sure I do._

_There are so many versions of you I remember, most of which I forgot a long time ago in my stubbornness and in my pride. I remember the mother who drew pictures in my oatmeal and the mother who put drink umbrellas in my milk. I remember the mother who used to leave me in the dead of night and the mother who locked herself in a motel room in __Oklahoma__._

_Now it is not __Oklahoma__ I remember best, but __Florida__. I see you as I saw you that day: as a body. A body half-naked and lifeless; arms and legs draped across the curves of a cheap mattress and face pillowed in a pool of vomit littered with both pills and alcohol. I remember this body best because I remember the face—eyes half-open and waiting, as if in expectation, perhaps for someone to come and save her. Perhaps even me._

_I can only remember you as a body. Because in that moment, I could not look at you and see my mother. It couldn't be. I didn't want to believe it. I didn't want to believe that it was you who lay dead in that room, you who had drowned herself in her own vomit, you who had taken her own life. Because you had already spent far too much of your life thinking only of yourself and not about the people who loved you. _

_I couldn't bear to believe that you had done it again._

_Did you love me?_

_I think you did. But oh, how I wished you showed it more. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. I turned out okay, didn't I? _

_Did I? Sometimes I look in the mirror and I cannot believe that the woman looking back at me is me. It cannot be. She is too tired, too weary—her face too battle-scarred and her heart too hardened. _

_Can you hear me, Maggie? Because I hate you. I hate you and I love you. I hate you because you are weak and I love you because you force me to be strong. I hate you because of what you do, to your life and to mine, and I love you because of who you are. I hate you and I love you, and I love you and I hate you, but most of all I miss you. _

_And I'm sorry. For before I saw through a glass, darkly; and I knew not what I had done. Now I see what you saw when we stood face to face—what you knew that I had yet to fully realize._

_It was not so much the things I had done which ravaged me so much as the things I had not._

_I'm sorry. Oh god, I'm sorry._

*          *          *

"Maggie died because she was drinking."

They were sitting in front of the tree, their shoulders touching and their bodies casting shadows like bent flower stems upon the wood. The day was fast drawing to a close, clouds closing in like curtains with hems that swept along the flat of the horizon, leaving streaks of peach and coral and seashell in their wake. To the right the moon was rising like a large, lopsided pearl, brightening and taking shape as the sun made its exit. Somewhere in the distance a bird trilled, its cry lovely and haunting.

Abby laughed. "I can't believe I just said that."

Carter turned to her. "Is it true?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"Then I can believe it."

They were silent again, washed in the lovely sapphire dream of twilight, and above them the stars began to fade into view.

"I wasn't lying when I said she overdosed." Abby looked down at her hands, the transparent blue of glass, then looked back at Carter. "She did. But not enough to kill her; at least, not by itself."

"I see," he said slowly. His arms draped over his knees, he pursed his lips and tilted his head toward hers. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I don't know." Abby shrugged, a half-smile on her face as she plucked a blade of grass from the ground. "I guess I didn't want to admit that I was wrong."

Intuitively, he understood what she was saying.

"I'm sorry," she said finally.

"You don't have to apologize—"

"Please."

Carter clamped his mouth shut.

Her fingers worked at the blade in her hand, fraying it sliver by sliver as she spoke. 

"You didn't understand," she began. "You didn't understand what it was like knowing your mother killed herself in spite of you. At least your mother tried to talk to you—she left, but she came back. Mine left, and that was it. It was like…" 

Her voice grew small. 

"It was like I didn't matter to her anymore."

He sucked in a breath.

"I know she didn't do it to spite me," Abby laughed softly to herself, "But it still felt like it. I felt like she abandoned me." Her eyes darted to his. "You know?"

Biting his lip, he nodded, his head jerking up and down in small, swift movements.

"I decided that I wasn't going to let her do this to me. Not again. I decided, hell, if she could drink her way to an early grave, so could I. So I did it."

Closing his eyes, Carter leaned his head dully against the tree. 

"I drank. A lot. More than you know."

Everything was beginning to make sense. It was all falling into place, like the scattered pieces of a puzzle snapping together.

"I drank because I didn't want to be that little girl again, waiting for her mom to come home. I drank because I wanted to get back at my mom, somehow, for leaving me. I drank because I didn't want to be a victim." Her mouth curved into a small, sad smile. "I guess that didn't work too well, did it?"

He remained mute, issuing another slight nod in response.

Abby squinted into the sunset, a wavering sliver of magma over the horizon, leaving strata of fire in its wake: scarlet, tangerine, gold. 

"I meant what I said: about you making decisions for me. I don't like it. I don't want to be rescued; I don't need to be saved."

"I know."

"You do that again and I'll rip out your ribcage and wear it as a hat."

"Duly noted," Carter cracked a grin. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone to Luka behind your back; I should've been honest."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"Hey, Carter?"

"Yeah?"

"I have a problem, don't I?"

Surprised, he turned toward her, his face chalked in the long blue shadows of early night. "I don't know," he replied, his voice slow and even. "Do you?"

She lifted her face to the sky, memories unreeling before her like a ribbon. There was nothing vague or unclear about these images, images she now recognized as the ones from her dreams. They were memories of her fainting, nearly once in the ambulance bay then again in the trauma room; and memories of a throbbing, an unceasing spell of headaches since the day Brian beat her. They were memories of her lying, to herself and to Carter; and memories of Nancy, her bright scarlet head bent as she leaned over to touch, ever so gently, the still body of her baby. 

And then the last memory. A new memory; one whose validity she was not quite sure she could trust, even though her unconscious already did. A memory of herself, seated in a smoke-filled bar, being touched by a man she did not know, having a drink she could not taste in a moment she could not remember.

Abby closed her eyes, briefly, then opened them again. She turned toward Carter.

"I haven't had a drink in two weeks."

Carter smiled. He leaned over and kissed her gently, just above the place his thumb had swept along her crown that winter night in the ER so many lifetimes ago.

*          *          *

It was nearly midnight when they left Maggie to be in peace. Their backs to the tree, Abby fell asleep several times against Carter's shoulder, her hands caught warmly in his. He nudged her when she began snoring to wake her up and tease her. She, in turn, reached over and poked him in the ribs, reiterating her previously issued threat until he relented and called for a truce.

Finally, they got up, their bodies a tangle of limbs and the cold night air on their skin. But before they turned away to leave, Abby paused and dropped his hand to turn and give her mother one last look.

Her heart beating in one long, aching throb, she stood out like a pale flower in the black of midnight, the line of her profile clean and white against the darkness. Her dark eyes swept over the bouquet of tulips she had laid across her mother's grave so that the tips of their petals brushed just against the headstone, and over the faintly discernable writing inscribed upon the dark slab, committing the curves of the letters to memory. She looked up, the sky full of stars, and swallowed the lump in her throat.

She had almost turned to leave when something caught her eye. Behind the grave, near the base of the large tree, she saw something she had not noticed the first time she had laid her mother to rest, nor when she arrived today, her eyes smarting with tears.

It surprised her to see that wildflowers grew there.

*          *          *

CREDITS: The title of the chapter (as well as the obligatory quote) is taken from "When You Are Old" by W. B. Yeats. Carter's thoughts on Abby and Luka were inspired by an email from the radiantly irreverent JD, who was kind enough to share her musings on the Abby/Luka relationship. "Leaf-fractured" is borrowed from _The Crying of __Lot__ 49 by Thomas Pynchon and "a ring of endless light" is the title of a book by Madeleine L'Engle. "Shift work becomes her" is an echo of Abby's line in "Beyond Repair." (Can you tell I liked the episode? ^_^) T.S. Eliot's passage about the hyacinth girl in his masterpiece "The Wasteland" inspired the line, "Her eyes dark and her arms full of flowers, his eyes suddenly failed him, and he found he could not speak." Part of Abby's musings at her mother's grave is inspired by the following biblical passage: "When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." (1 Corinthians 13:11) "I don't want to be rescued; I don't need to be saved" is a line lifted from the splendid breakup scene between Abby and Luka in "The Longer You Stay." "You do that again and I'll rip out your ribcage and wear it as a hat" is paraphrased from BtVS. A more detailed explanation of the references used in this chapter can be found at my fic journal (www.livejournal.com/~cmidori)._


	10. The End of the Day

TITLE: Through the Door (10/10)

AUTHOR: C. Midori

EMAIL: socksless@hotmail.com

CATEGORY: JC/AL Angst

RATING: R for adult situations and language

SPOILERS: All of Season 8, except "Lockdown."

ARCHIVE: Please ask first for permission.

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations owned by Not Me. These Other People may include, but are not limited to: NBC, Warner Bros., Michael Crichton, etc. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Fuzz and thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Eight: Cathi, Maddy, Lily, hottie9752, Carolyn, pix, Theresa, Jane McCartney, Em, JD, Dana, Kate, Margarita, CorruptCarbyChickie, Alanna, Rebecca, Christe, and the anonymous reviewer on ff.net. Also, a double-helping of thanks to Heather and pix for being Fabulous Hosts. Finally, this is the last part of _Through the Door. Read, enjoy, review. ^_^ And see notes at end._

SUMMARY: Endings and beginnings, addictions and assumptions, haircuts, ice cream, and an Epiphany with a capital E for the lovely lady with uncombed hair.

EPILOGUE

The End of the Day

_And just when you mean to tell her  
That you have no love to give her  
Then she gets you on her wavelength  
And she lets the river answer  
That you've always been her lover  
And you want to travel with her  
And you want to travel blind  
And you know that she will trust you  
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind._

*          *          *

ABBY PACED THE PERIMETER OF THE AMBULANCE BAY outside County, one hand tucked close to her body and the other clutching a lit cigarette. Wincing, she wrapped her scrub top more tightly around herself as a sudden, sharp wind gusted through the bay. The breeze swept along the perimeter of the lot, gathering fallen leaves into a flurry and sending them aflutter, like torn pieces of colorful wrapping paper in the wind.

She took a drag on her smoke, her head swiveling slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"I thought you were trying to quit," Luka joined her, a tease detectable in his thick accent.

"One thing at a time," she shrugged. She checked her watch. "You're off early."

"Half-shift." He secured the bag slung over his shoulder. "When are you off?"

"Not for another four hours."

"You've got that AAA meeting tonight, right?"

"AA," Abby smiled, raising the cigarette to her lips. "Yeah, that's tonight."

"Looking forward to it?"

"Beats working the night shift on a Friday."

"Night shift's not so bad," he replied mildly.

"Easy for you to say," she poked his shoulder. "Half-shift."

"Hey, I'm in at six tomorrow morning."

"Ouch." Abby smiled into her collar.

Luka ducked his head and pinned her down with his gaze. "What? What's wrong?"

She raised her head. Amused, "Is that cologne you're wearing?"

"Why?" He looked at her self-consciously. "You don't like it?"

The cigarette dangled precariously from her lips as she laughed. "It's very manly," she assured him.

"I'm going out tonight."

"So who's the lucky girl? Michelle or Terry?"

"Neither, actually," Luka admitted. "Susan."

Abby felt her eyebrows shoot up. "Lewis?"

"I...don't date coworkers."

Laughing, she sputtered, "And what do you call what we did?"

"Going study."

"You mean, 'going steady'," she smiled, flicking her wrist.

"Whatever." Roguishly, he grinned at her. "I don't date coworkers _anymore. Happy?"_

"Quite."

"Anyway," Luka pushed his sleeve back and glanced at his watch, "I should get going." 

"You have fun," Abby nodded. He gave her a little wave. "Out of curiosity, you're not taking her to the Ice Capades, are you?" she called after his retreating figure.

"Very funny!" he yelled, without turning around.

Biting her lip, Abby watched him cross the expanse of the ambulance bay with his quick, purposive strides. She fiddled with her smoke, the lit cigarette trembling between the swell of two knuckles, and shifted her weight. Finally, with a decisive intake of breath, she made up her mind and ran after him impulsively.

"Luka!"

"Abby?" he turned around, a question on his face. "What is it?"

"It's just—I forgot—" She cut herself off, a bit breathless from her short trot, and pulled herself together as she managed to speak. "I wanted to thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything." Clumsily, she forced herself to look at him, forced herself to choose her words carefully, and her cigarette dropped to the ground, forgotten. "Thank you."

Intuitively, Luka seemed to understand what she was saying. He reached out and brushed a piece of hair away from the corner of her mouth.

"No problem," he winked. "What are friends for?"

*          *          *

"Better not let Carter see you," Susan remarked. She stepped outside, her eyes twinkling as she watched Abby approach the ER.

Abby glanced backwards. She could see Luka's tall head skirting the edge of a crowd before it finally disappeared into a sea of bobbing heads and faces. 

Turning back around, she made a face. "Luka and I were just talking."

"Anything interesting?"

"He's got a date tonight."

"Really?"

"With someone named Susan."

"Hmm."

"You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Abby teased.

"Unfortunately not," Susan replied good-naturedly. "By the way, we've got a major MVA coming in about five minutes. Ice cream truck versus family van."

"Doesn't sound that bad." Idly, she wrapped her arms around herself. "Don't those trucks drive at, like, five miles per hour?"

"Apparently, not this one."

"I see. Sounds messy."

"About thirty one flavors worth," Susan commented, hugging herself as she stomped her feet. "God, it's getting cold."

"It's September," Abby yawned.

"Don't remind me. A mere stone's throw from another long and miserable winter."

"Nice optimism you've got going there."

Absent-mindedly, "Yeah." She squinted into the waning sunlight. "Hey, you're not working tonight, are you?"

"Thankfully not."

"Friday night," Susan said temptingly. "Let's go get a drink after our shift."

Abby looked regretful. "I can't."

"What, don't tell me you've got a date, too?"

"Nothing near that exciting."

"What, then?"

"AA meeting."

Startled, Susan snapped her head. "What?"

"It's not that exciting, really." Abby kept her voice casual. She glanced over at her friend and smiled. "I'm a drunk."

"I had no idea," she blurted. "I'm sorry."

Shrugging, "It's not something I like to advertise."

"Wow," Susan murmured, more to herself. "How long have you been sober?"

"Twenty five days and counting."

After a beat, Susan turned to her and beamed. "Congratulations."

Abby looked pleased. "Thanks."

"So I guess this means no more bar hopping."

"We could make it coffee," Abby offered.

Agreeable, Susan nodded. "We could."

"I know a place."

"Not Doc Magoo's."

"Damn."

"What do I look like, Carter?"

"Don't start."

"So how long is your meeting, anyway? Maybe we could do something afterwards."

"It's only a couple of hours." Abby paused. "Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something..."

An ambulance car screeched into the bay, drowning out the sound of her voice.

*          *          *

"Would it be wrong of me to be craving ice cream right now?" Carter watched the gurney roll out of the trauma room. "I could really go for some vanilla."

"Vanilla?" Abby snorted. "How..."

"Boring?" he supplied. "Bland?"

"How Carter," she finished, snapping off a pair of latex gloves.

"Hey," he protested. Peeling off his scrubs, he followed her out of the trauma room and dumped the discarded cover into a receptacle. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Abby shrugged, the beginnings of a smile on her lips. 

"Nothing?" Carter tagged at her heels. 

"Nothing," she confirmed.

After a moment, he spoke up again. "Wait, you're saying I'm boring!"

"You said it, I didn't."

Mildly indignant, he shadowed her until they were at the front desk. "I'm not boring," he insisted.

"Anyone have change for a dollar?" Frank piped up, waving a dollar bill in front of their faces as they passed by.

"Carter," Abby shook her head at Frank, "You like vanilla."

"Hey," Susan protested, dropping off a chart, "I like vanilla."

"See?" Carter gestured.

"Anyone?" Frank tried again.

"Just kidding," Susan smiled. She walked away, calling over her shoulder, "Too boring."

Abby smothered a grin.

"Anyone at all?" Frank hollered. He stared pointedly at Carter.

"I've got it," Carter said impatiently. He rummaged through his pants pockets, hands emerging empty-handed. "Sorry, Frank. Must be in my locker."

Frank looked aggrieved. "Well, can you get it?"

Absently, "Yeah, yeah. Give me a moment." Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Abby walking toward an exam room. "Abby!" he waved his hand. "Wait!" He grabbed her elbow. "Technically, I never said vanilla was my favorite."

Rolling her eyes, she let Carter drag her in the direction of the lounge. "Technically, I never said you were boring."

The door to the lounge swung open. They stopped in their tracks.

"Yosh?" Carter stared at the nurse who sat with his head tilted back into the sink. He then stared at Jerry and Chuny.

"What are you doing?" Abby looked at Jerry.

"We're giving him a haircut." Jerry waved a razor in the air. "For covering your shift, Abby."

Carter shook his head and walked toward his locker.

"Wasn't that awhile ago?" she returned.

"Better late than never," Jerry shrugged. "You owe him."

"You don't!" Yosh pleaded. His voice became muffled as Chuny turned on the water. "Abby, tell them."

Abby made it a point to look away. "I'm staying out of this."

"Don't worry, Yosh," Chuny assured him. She slathered her hands with shampoo. "We'll make you beautiful."

Stifling a laugh, Abby switched her glance to Carter. She watched as he grabbed a fistful of change and a small slip of paper out of his locker before walking back in her direction.

"Can't you guys do that in the bathroom or something?" Carter pointed out.

"We thought about that," Jerry conceded. "But we weren't sure whether to go men's or women's."

"Right," Carter said under his breath. He took hold of Abby's elbow again, steering her out of the lounge. "Anyway, I found this in my pocket the other day."

The lounge door closed behind them, muffling a howl.

She glanced down at his closed fist. "What is it?"

"Guess."

Plaintively, "I hate guessing games."

Carter stepped in front of her, blocking her way. "Please?"

"Not interested," Abby said, sidestepping him and quickening her strides.

"Okay, okay," he laughed, hurrying to keep up with her. Grabbing her hand, he spun her towards him and pressed a small slip of paper into her open palm, closing her fingers around it. He grinned and looked at her expectantly.

Reluctantly, Abby opened her hand. She glanced down at it. "It's a blank piece of paper, Carter."

Looking slightly crestfallen, "You don't remember?"

Patiently, she returned her gaze to the slightly crumpled paper, flipping it over and examining both sides. "I'm drawing a blank."

"It's your fortune. From...well, you know."

Immediately, Abby felt her cheeks warm.

Carter gave her a small, intimate smile. "You remember."

"Thanks," she mumbled, slipping the paper into her pocket. "I think."

"It's kind of cool, don't you think?"

"It's blank," she reminded him.

"Yeah!" he said, enthusiastic again. "How many people get to make their own fortunes?"

"Never mind," Abby laughed. "You _are boring."_

*          *          *

"...and give him 10 CCs of Haldol," Susan said, flipping through the chart on her hand as she walked toward the front desk. "Also, could you call security have them post a guard outside his door? I think he's a runner."

"Okay." Abby took the chart. "Want me to page you when Psych comes down for a consult?"

"Please." Susan erased her name from the board. "Oh, and did you start an IV on the woman in curtain three yet?"

"Doing that now."

"Looks like things have slowed down," Susan remarked, staring at the board. "Hey Carter, did you do the suture in curtain one?"

Carter looked up, the phone on his ear. "What?"

"Curtain one. Did you suture?"

"The taxidermist? I think Deb got him." Looking otherwise occupied, he dropped his voice and returned to the phone.

"Who's on the phone?" Susan said, looking interested.

"Huh?" He looked up again, then quickly answered, "Nobody."

"Must be a pretty important nobody."

"Dr. Phyllis Weston from Northwestern," Randi supplied.

"Phyllis Weston?" Susan arched her eyebrows. "Didn't you go to med school with her?"

Carter covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "How did you—"

"Susan," Abby propped her elbows on the front desk, "Your guy's gone."

"What?"

"The runner. He's gone."

"Damn," Susan sighed. "Call security—I'm going to go look for him."

Sliding her elbows off the counter, Abby nodded and turned to leave.

"So I'll pick you up at eight?"

Slowly, she turned back around.

"Okay, let me know then. Great. Yeah. See you tonight." Looking mildly pleased, Carter hung up the phone. "Hey, Randi? If Dr. Weston calls again, page me."

Feeling oddly misplaced, Abby cleared her throat. "Hot date?"

"Abby?" Carter spun around. "I didn't know...uh...I didn't know you were standing there."

"I work here," she reminded him, keeping her voice light.

For a long, uncomfortable half-moment, he watched her walk away. 

"Wait," he blurted, rushing after her. "It's not a date."

"Don't worry about it," Abby interrupted. "You don't have to explain it to me."

"But I want to."

"But you don't have to." Without meaning to, she laughed, the words oddly familiar to her ears. "It's none of my business."

"Abby," he began helplessly.

"I've got to go look for a patient."

"It's not what you think."

"Would you let go of my arm?"

Reluctantly, Carter let her go. He watched as she disappeared down the hallway.

*          *          *

Night flamed over the city in a smoldering black fire; burning sapphire, then navy, then finally obsidian as the ashes from its blaze smudged the sky with smoke-colored clouds. The stars gleamed white and needle-thin, a handful of salt spilled across a heavy black cloth, and in the space between the stars a fragile crescent carved a sliver of light out of the night-burnt sky. Though it was only autumn, the breeze that flapped Abby's curtains and ruffled her mussed hair carried a sharp chill that spoke of ice and knives, cold crisp winters and Christmastime. 

Abby shivered. Behind her, the room darkened to a near lightless spill, the air mixed with the musty odor of wet leaves and the heavy, sweet fragrance of gardenia blooms. Breathing in this pungent scent, she drew the blanket on her shoulders more tightly around her and continued watching the lights of the city twinkle.

Her eyes groped the darkness; though to be sure, she did not know whether she was looking for something she had lost, or simply reaffirming the presence of something already there. If it was the former, she had no idea what she was looking for—she had lost many things in her young life. Once she was a daughter, once a wife, once even a mother; and now, none of those things, not anymore, and it grieved her.

But if it was the latter, she had a pretty good idea of what she had, and it made her smile.

Issuing a little sigh, she tapped the face of her watch with one slender fingertip. She had two more hours until her first meeting. Idly, she wondered if she should eat something, or whether she'd just throw it up anyway from sheer nervousness. 

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Half-reluctantly, she rose from her seat by the window and wrapped the comforter around her slight shoulders. The blanket dragging in a long train behind her, she padded over in her socked feet and pressed her ear to the door.

"Who is it?"

"It's me."

Abby blinked. "Carter?"

"Yeah."

Tiptoeing, she peered through the small lens. Of course it was Carter, from the messy cowlicks to the suspenders to the large, expressive eyes—the color of wet wood in the dark. There was a rumpled look to him that she correctly identified as that post-twelve-hour-shift feel.

Closing the blanket more tightly around herself, she undid the locks and opened the door.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said back.

There was a long silence.

Finally, Carter cleared his throat. "So I here there's an AA meeting tonight."

"Yeah." Cautiously, Abby looked at him. "How'd you know?"

"I talked to Susan." Another awkward pause. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah. Sorry." She moved aside, one hand flitting carelessly in the air. "I wasn't expecting anyone."

Ignoring the pointed comment, he spoke. "When's the meeting start?"

"Ten." Abby closed the door behind him, glancing at her watch. "It's eight right now"

"Yeah?"

She tried again. "Aren't you supposed to be somewhere?"

Thoughtfully, "No."

"I thought you had a date."

"I told you, it's not a date," Carter said quietly, his face clouded by shadows in the unlit room. "Aren't you cold?"

"A little." Abby shrugged underneath her blanket. "It sounded like a date to me."

"We were just having dinner." He examined her profile studiously as she moved about the room, her slim arms reaching out from beneath the folds of the comforter to close each window. "We're writing an article together."

"An article?" Her voice was muffled as she slammed the last window shut.

"Yeah. A joint study between County and Northwestern."

"So..."

"So...?" Carter prompted her.

"So..." Trailing off, Abby turned to face him. The expression on her face was blank and her voice was colorless. "Why are you here?"

"Tonight's your first meeting."

Wrapping her arms around herself, she nodded.

"Is it an open meeting?"

She nodded again.

"I thought you might need the company."

"I don't."

"Well, I thought you might want it." Carter fiddled with the keys in his hands. "It's no big deal. Phil cancelled on me."

Abby looked skeptical.

"Okay, I cancelled on her."

"You did."

"It wasn't a big deal." He paused. "But your meeting is...and if I'm going to be your sponsor, I want to attend."

"My sponsor?" A short, sharp laugh escaped her lips as she shook her head. "Carter, I never asked you to sponsor me."

His eyes flickered like leaves turned by the wind. "I'm volunteering."

"Okay."

There was a long, drawn-out pause.

"You kept the flowers," Carter said, his voice low.

"I did."

"Do you like them?"

"They're a little alive for my taste." Her face was completely dark, her rumpled form silhouetted against the street lights that poured in through the windows. "But yeah, I like them. Thanks."

In the darkness, he thought he heard her smile.

"Carter." Delicately, Abby paused. "Thanks for the sentiment, but I don't need you to sponsor me."

"It's not a problem," he misinterpreted her statement. "You don't have to ask."

"I'm not." She stood her ground. "I'm not asking. I don't need a sponsor."

"Of course you do."

"Actually," she replied, mildly annoyed, "I don't."

"Abby." Wounded, Carter fought to keep the indignation out of his voice. "You can't do this on your own."

"Do what on my own?"

"Deal with your drinking," he said bluntly. "You need someone to help you through this."

"I know," Abby said, her voice flat. "Which is why I asked Susan."

"Oh." For a moment, Carter looked foolish. "I'm sorry."

"Her sister used to be an addict."

He felt his face burning. "I know."

"And she's my friend."

"Yeah."

"Besides," she continued, after a moment. "It's easier this way."

"Easier?"

"Less complicated."

Before he could stop himself, he felt the words fall on his palate. "What's less complicated?"

"You know," Abby smiled. "You. Me."

"Us."

"Exactly."

Unable to speak, he cleared his throat several times. "Abby, I'm sorry. I thought—"

"Coffee and pie," she interrupted, her face a blank page. "Before the meeting. Your treat. Then maybe I'll think about forgiving you."

There was a dull, consumptive ache in her chest—half pleasure, half pain—as she looked at him with a steady seriousness; never flinching, never wavering, never breaking away. The blanket fell slack around her shoulders, the expression on her face unfolded like a flower, but she held her gaze steady. Though there was darkness behind her and darkness before her, in that moment she felt as if all her world, the good and the bad, was written there on his face, plain as day.

And she could deny what she felt for him no longer, no more than she could deny what he felt for her.

"Coffee and pie's on me," Carter said.

Abby nodded and the moment was gone. She shucked the comforter aside and tossed it onto the couch, grabbing her purse and her keys in one neat motion as she felt his eyes on her. Though she unlocked the door, it was Carter who drew it open for them both, and he tucked his hand securely against the small of her back as they walked through the door and into the night beyond.

*          *          *

CREDITS: There are two recycled lines in this chapter from earlier chapters in the story; see if you can find them. The requisite quotation is from the song "Suzanne" by Leonard Cohen. Abby's admission of her alcoholism to Susan is more or less the admission she made to Carter in "Sand and Water." The last scene in which Carter places his hand against the small of Abby's back is a tiny homage to The X-Files. And, of course, any Carby worth her salt knows from whence the coffee and pie came. ^_^

ENDNOTES: Holy schmuck, I'm done! *puts down pen with a flourish* But the saga of Carter, Abby, and their thirty one flavors of unrequited love continues in the yet-untitled sequel, which hits web browsers near you in October 2002. Until then, feel free to visit the fanfic journal at www.livejournal.com/~cmidori for periodic goodies, or you can even reread _Through the Door until your eyes bleed if you're so inclined._

Coffee, pie, and my repeated thanks to everyone who ever took the time to review. When I started writing _Through the Door back in May, I never thought that I would end up enjoying it as much as I did—but I did, and that's all your collective fault. ^_^ Thank you._


End file.
